LUR4RY 


SITY  OF 
CAL.FORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


MASTERPIECES  OF  MYSTERY 


Masterpieces  of 
Mystery 

In  Four  Volumes 

DETECTIVE  STORIES 
Edited  by 

Joseph  Lewis  French 


Garden  City  New  York 

Doubleday,  Page   &  Company 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ20,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   &  COMPANY 

ALL  EIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
1KTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

FEINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  T. 


NOTE 

THE  Editor  desires  especially  to  acknowledge 
assistance  in  granting  the  use  of  original  material, 
and  for  helpful  advice  and  suggestion,  to  Professor 
Brander  Matthews  of  Columbia  University,  to  Mrs. 
Anna  Katherine  Green  Rohlfs,  to  Cleveland  Moffett, 
to  Arthur  Reeve,  creator  of  "Craig  Kennedy,"  to 
Wilbur  Daniel  Steele,  to  Ralph  Adams  Cram,  to 
Chester  Bailey  Fernald,  to  Brian  Brown,  to  Mrs. 
Lillian  M.  Robins  of  the  publisher's  office,  and  to 
Charles  E.  Farrington  of  the  Brooklyn  Public 
Library. 


FOREWORD 

THE  honour  of  founding  the  modern  detective 
story  belongs  to  an  American  writer.  Such  tales  as 
"The  Purloined  Letter"  and  "The  Murders  in  the 
Rue  Morgue"  still  stand  unrivalled. 

We  in  America  no  more  than  the  world  of  letters 
at  large,  did  not  readily  realize  what  Poe  had  done 
when  he  created  Auguste  Dupin — the  prototype  of 
Sherlock  Holmes  et  genus  omnes,  up  to  the  present 
hour.  On  Poe's  work  is  built  the  whole  school  of 
French  detective  story  writers.  Conan  Doyle  de- 
rived his  inspiration  from  them  in  turn,  and  our 
American  writers  of  to-day  are  helped  from  both 
French  and  English  sources.  It  is  rare  enough  to 
find  the  detective  in  fiction  even  to-day,  however, 
who  is  not  lacking  in  one  supreme  quality, — scientific 
imagination.  Auguste  Dupin  had  it.  Dickens,  had 
he  lived  a  short  time  longer,  might  have  turned  his 
genius  in  this  direction.  The  last  thing  he  wrote 
was  the  "Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood,"  the  mystery 
of  which  is  still  unravelled.  I  have  heard  the 
opinion  expressed  by  an  eminent  living  writer  that 
had  Dickens'  life  been  prolonged  he  would  probably 
have  become  the  greatest  master  of  the  detective 
story,  except  Poe. 


Foreword 
t 

The  detective  story  heretofore  has  been  based 
upon  one  of  two  methods:  analysis  or  deduction. 
The  former  was  Poe's,  to  take  the  typical  example; 
the  latter  is  Conan  Doyle's.  Of  late  the  discoveries 
of  science  have  been  brought  into  play  in  this  field 
of  fiction  with  notable  results.  The  most  prominent 
of  such  innovators,  indeed  the  first  one,  is  Arthur 
Reeve,  an  American  writer,  whose  "Black  Hand" 
will  be  found  in  this  collection;  which  has  endeav- 
oured within  its  limited  space  to  cover  the  field 
from  the  start — the  detective  story — wholly  the 
outgrowth  of  the  more  highly  developed  police 
methods  which  have  sprung  into  being  within  little 
more  than  half  a  century,  being  only  so  old. 

JOSEPH  LEWIS  FRENCH. 


VIM 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

I.    THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  ....         3 
Edgar  Allan  Poe 

n.    THE  BLACK  HAND       .     .     ...    •     •      33 
Arthur  B.  Reeve 

HE.    THE  BITER  BIT       .     .     .    v  ry     .       64 
Wilkie  Collins 

IV.    MISSING:    PAGE  THIRTEEN    .    Y  • .     108 
Anna  Katherine  Green 

V.    A  SCANDAL  IN  BOHEMIA   .     .     .     .     164 
A.  Conan  Doyle 

VI.    THE  ROPE  OF  FEAR     .....     200 
Mary  E.  and  Thomas  W.  Hanshew 

VII.    THE  SAFETY  MATCH 229 

Anton  Chekhov 

VIII.    SOME  SCOTLAND  YARD  STORIES   .     .     261 
Sir  Robert  Anderson 


MASTERPIECES  OF  MYSTERY 


Masterpieces  of 
Mystery 

DETECTIVE  STORIES 

THE  PURLOINED  LETTER 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Nil  sapientiae  odiosius  acumine  nimio. — SENECA. 

A  Paris,  just  after  dark  one  gusty  evening  in 
the  autumn  of  18 — ,  I  was  enjoying  the 
twofold   luxury   of   meditation   and   meer- 
schaum, in  company  with  my  friend,  C.  Auguste 
Dupin,  in  his  little  back  library,  or  book-closet,  au 
troisieme,  No.  33  Rue  Dun6t,  Faubourg  St.  Ger- 
main.   For  one  hour  at  least  we  had  maintained  a 
profound  silence;  while  each,  to  any  casual  observer, 
might  have  seemed  intently  and  exclusively  occupied 
with  the  curling  eddies  of  smoke  that  oppressed  the 
atmosphere  of  the  chamber.    For  myself,  however, 
I  was  mentally  discussing  certain  topics  which  had 
formed  matter  for  conversation  between  us  at  an 
earlier  period  of  the  evening;  I  mean  the  affair  of  the 
3 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Rue  Morgue  and  the  mystery  attending  the  murder 
of  Marie  Roget.  I  looked  upon  it,  therefore,  as 
something  of  a  coincidence,  when  the  door  of  our 
apartment  was  thrown  open  and  admitted  our  old 
acquaintance,  Monsieur  G — ,  the  Prefect  of  the 
Parisian  police. 

We  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome;  for  there  was 
nearly  half  as  much  of  the  entertaining  as  of  the  con- 
temptible about  the  man,  and  we  had  not  seen  him 
for  several  years.  We  had  been  sitting  in  the  dark, 
and  Dupin  now  arose  for  the  purpose  of  lighting  a 
lamp,  but  sat  down  again,  without  doing  so,  upon 
G — 's  saying  that  he  had  called  to  consult  us,  or 
rather  to  ask  the  opinion  of  my  friend,  about  some 
official  business  which  had  occasioned  a  great  deal  of 
trouble. 

"If  it  is  any  point  requiring  reflection,"  observed 
Dupin,  as  he  forbore  to  enkindle  the  wick,  "we  shall 
examine  it  to  better  purpose  in  the  dark." 

"That  is  another  of  your  odd  notions,"  said  the 
Prefect,  who  had  the  fashion  of  calling  everything 
"odd"  that  was  beyond  his  comprehension,  and 
thus  lived  amid  an  absolute  legion  of  "oddities." 

"Very  true,"  said  Dupin,  as  he  supplied  his 
visitor  with  a  pipe  and  rolled  toward  him  a  com- 
fortable chair. 

"And  what  is  the  difficulty  now?"  I  asked. 
"Nothing  more  in  the  assassination  way,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,  no;  nothing  of  that  nature.  The  fact  is,  the 
business  is  very  simple  indeed,  and  I  make  no  doubt 
4 


The  Purloined  Letter 

that  we  can  manage  it  sufficiently  well  ourselves;  but 
then  I  thought  Dupin  would  like  to  hear  the  details 
of  it,  because  it  is  so  excessively  odd." 

"Simple  and  odd?"  said  Dupin. 

"Why,  yes;  and  not  exactly  that  either.  The  fact 
is,  we  have  all  been  a  good  deal  puzzled  because  the 
affair  is  so  simple,  and  yet  baffles  us  altogether." 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  very  simplicity  of  the  thing 
which  puts  you  at  fault,"  said  my  friend. 

"What  nonsense  you  do  talk!"  replied  the  Prefect, 
laughing  heartily. 

"Perhaps  the  mystery  is  a  little  too  plain,"  said 
Dupin. 

"Oh,  good  heavens!  who  ever  heard  of  such  an 
idea?" 

"A  little  too  self-evident." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!— ha!  ha!  ha!— ho!  ho!  ho!"  roared 
our  visitor,,  profoundly  amused.  "Oh,  Dupin,  you 
will  be  the  death  of  me  yet!" 

"And  what,  after  all,  is  the  matter  on  hand?"  I 
asked. 

"Why,  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  the  Prefect,  as  he 
gave  a  long,  steady,  and  contemplative  puff  and 
settled  himself  in  his  chair, — "I  will  tell  you  in 
a  few  words;  but,  before  I  begin,  let  me  caution 
you  that  this  is  an  affair  demanding  the  greatest 
secrecy,  and  that  I  should  most  probably  lose  the 
position  I  now  hold  were  it  known  that  I  confided 
it  to  anyone." 

"Proceed,  "said  I. 

5 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery    ; 

"Or  not,"  saidDupin. 

"Well,  then;  I  have  received  personal  informa- 
tion, from  a  very  high  quarter,  that  a  certain  docu- 
ment of  the  last  importance  has  been  purloined  from 
the  royal  apartments.  The  individual  who  pur- 
loined it  is  known — this  beyond  a  doubt;  he  was  seen 
to  take  it.  It  is  known,  also,  that  it  still  remains 
in  his  possession." 

"How  is  this  known?"  asked  Dupin. 

"It  is  clearly  inferred,"  replied  the  Prefect,  "from 
the  nature  of  the  document  and  from  the  non- 
appearance  of  certain  results  which  would  at  once 
arise  from  its  passing  out  of  the  robber's  possession, 
that  is  to  say,  from  his  employing  it  as  he  must 
design  in  the  end  to  employ  it." 

"Be  a  little  more  explicit,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  may  venture  so  far  as  to  say  that  the 
paper  gives  its  holder  a  certain  power  in  a  certain 
quarter  where  such  power  is  immensely  valuable." 
The  Prefect  was  fond  of  the  cant  of  diplomacy. 

"Still  I  do  not  quite  understand,"  said  Dupin. 

"No?  Well;  the  disclosure  of  the  document  to  a 
third  person,  who  shall  be  nameless,  would  bring  in 
question  the  honour  of  a  personage  of  most  exalted 
station;  and  this  fact  gives  the  holder  of  the  docu- 
ment an  ascendency  over  the  illustrious  personage 
whose  honour  and  peace  are  so  jeopardized." 

"But   this  ascendency,"   I  interposed,   "would 
depend  upon  the  robber's  knowledge  of  the  loser's 
knowledge  of  the  robber.    Who  would  dare — " 
6 


The  Purloined  Letter 

"The  thief,"  said  G— ,  "is  the  Minister  D— ,  who 
dares  all  things,  those  unbecoming  as  well  as  those 
becoming  a  man.  The  method  of  the  theft  was  not 
less  ingenious  than  bold.  The  document  in  ques- 
tion,— a  letter,  to  be  frank, — had  been  received  by 
the  personage  robbed  while  alone  in  the  royal 
boudoir.  During  its  perusal  she  was  suddenly 
Interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  other  exalted 
personage  from  whom  especially  it  was  her  wish  to 
conceal  it.  After  a  hurried  and  vain  endeavour  to 
thrust  it  in  a  drawer,  she  was  forced  to  place  it,  open 
as  it  was,  upon  a  table.  The  address,  however,  was 
uppermost,  and,  the  contents  thus  unexposed,  the 
letter  escaped  notice.  At  this  juncture  enters  the 
Minister  D — .  His  lynx  eye  immediately  perceives 
the  paper,  recognizes  the  handwriting  of  the  address, 
observes  the  confusion  of  the  personage  addressed, 
and  fathoms  her  secret.  After  some  business  trans- 
actions, hurried  through  in  his  ordinary  manner, 
he  produces  a  letter  somewhat  similar  to  the  one  in 
question,  opens  it,  pretends  to  read  it,  and  then 
places  it  in  close  juxtaposition  to  the  other.  Again 
he  converses  for  some  fifteen  minutes  upon  the  public 
affairs.  At  length,  in  taking  leave,  he  takes  also 
from  the  table  the  letter  to  which  he  had  no  claim. 
Its  rightful  owner  saw,  but,  of  course,  dared  not  call 
attention  to  the  act,  in  the  presence  of  the  third 
personage,  who  stood  at  her  elbow.  The  Minister 
decamped,  leaving  his  own  letter,  one  of  no  im- 
portance, upon  the  table." 
7 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Here,  then,"  said  Dupin  to  me,  "you  have  pre- 
cisely what  you  demand  to  make  the  ascendency 
complete,  the  robber's  knowledge  of  the  loser's 
knowledge  of  the  robber." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Prefect;  "and  the  power  thus 
attained  has,  for  some  months  past,  been  wielded, 
for  political  purposes,  to  a  very  dangerous  extent. 
The  personage  robbed  is  more  thoroughly  convinced 
every  day  of  the  necessity  of  reclaiming  her  letter. 
But  this,  of  course,  cannot  be  done  openly.  In 
fine,  driven  to  despair,  she  has  committed  the  matter 
to  me." 

"Than  whom,"  said  Dupin,  amid  a  perfect  whirl- 
wind of  smoke,  "no  more  sagacious  agent  could,  I 
suppose,  be  desired  or  even  imagined." 

"You  flatter  me,"  replied  the  Prefect;  "but  it  is 
possible  that  some  such  opinion  may  have  been 
entertained." 

"It  is  clear,"  said  I,  "as  you  observe,  that  the 
letter  is  still  in  the  possession  of  the  Minister;  since 
it  is  this  possession,  and  not  any  employment  of  the 
letter,  which  bestows  the  power.  With  the  employ- 
ment the  power  departs." 

"True,"  said  G — ;  "and  upon  this  conviction  I 
proceeded.  My  first  care  was  to  make  thorough 
search  of  the  Minister's  hotel;  and  here  my  chief 
embarrassment  lay  in  the  necessity  of  searching 
without  his  knowledge.  Beyond  all  things,  I  have 
been  warned  of  the  danger  which  would  result  from 
giving  him  reason  to  suspect  our  design." 
8 


The  Purloined  Letter 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  are  quite  au  jait  in  these 
investigations.  The  Parisian  police  have  done  this 
thing  often  before." 

"Oh,  yes;  and  for  this  reason  I  did  not  despair. 
The  habits  of  the  Minister  gave  me,  too,  a  great 
advantage.  He  is  frequently  absent  from  home  all 
night.  His  servants  are  by  no  means  numerous. 
They  sleep  at  a  distance  from  their  master's  apart- 
ment, and,  being  chiefly  Neapolitans,  are  readily  made 
drunk.  I  have  keys,  as  you  know,  with  which  I  can 
open  any  chamber  or  cabinet  in  Paris.  For  three 
months  a  night  has  not  passed,  during  the  greater 
part  of  which  I  have  not  been  engaged,  personally, 
in  ransacking  the  D —  Hotel.  My  honour  is  in- 
terested, and,  to  mention  a  great  secret,  the  reward  is 
enormous.  So  I  did  not  abandon  the  search  until 
I  had  become  fully  satisfied  that  the  thief  is  a  more 
astute  man  than  myself.  I  fancy  that  I  have  in- 
vestigated every  nook  and  corner  of  the  premises 
in  which  it  is  possible  that  the  paper  can  be  con- 
cealed." 

"But  is  it  not  possible,"  I  suggested,  "that 
although  the  letter  may  be  in  possession  of  the 
Minister,  as  it  unquestionably  is,  he  may  have  con- 
cealed it  elsewhere  than  upon  his  own  premises?" 

"This  is  barely  possible,"  said  Dupin.  "The 
present  peculiar  condition  of  affairs  at  court,  and 
especially  of  those  intrigues  in  which  D —  is  known 
to  be  involved,  would  render  the  instant  availability 
of  the  document,  its  susceptibility  of  being  produced 
9 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

at  a  moment's  notice,  a  point  of  nearly  equal  im- 
portance with  its  possession." 

"Its  susceptibility  of  being  produced?"  said  I. 

"That  is  to  say,  of  being  destroyed,"  said  Dupin. 

"True,"  I  observed;  "the  paper  is  clearly,  then, 
upon  the  premises.  As  for  its  being  upon  the 
person  of  the  minister,  we  may  consider  that  as  out 
of  the  question." 

"Entirely,"  said  the  Prefect.  "He  has  been 
twice  waylaid,  as  if  by  footpads,  and  his  person 
rigidly  searched  under  my  own  inspection." 

"You  might  have  spared  yourself  this  trouble," 
said  Dupin.  "D — ,  I  presume,  is  not  altogether  a 
fool,  and,  if  not,  must  have  anticipated  these  way- 
layings,  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"Not  altogether  a  fool,"  said  G — ,  "but  then  he 
is  a  poet,  which  I  take  to  be  only  one  remove  from 
a  fool." 

"True,"  said  Dupin,  after  a  long  and  thoughtful 
whiff  from  his  meerschaum,  "although  I  have  been 
guilty  of  certain  doggerel  myself." 

"Suppose  you  detail,"  said  I,  "the  particulars  of 
your  search." 

"Why,  the  fact  is,  we  took  our  time,  and  we 
searched  everywhere.  I  have  had  long  experience 
in  these  affairs.  I  took  the  entire  building,  room 
by  room;  devoting  the  nights  of  a  whole  week  to 
each.  We  examined,  first,  the  furniture  of  each 
apartment.  We  opened  every  possible  drawer; 
and  I  presume  you  know  that,  to  a  properly  trained 
10 


The  Purloined  Letter 

police-agent,  such  a  thing  as  a  'secret'  drawer  is 
impossible.  Any  man  is  a  dolt  who  permits  a 
'secret'  drawer  to  escape  him  in  a  search  of  this 
kind.  The  thing  is  so  plain.  There  is  a  certain 
amount  of  bulk,  of  space,  to  be  accounted  for  hi 
every  cabinet.  Then  we  have  accurate  rules.  The 
fiftieth  part  of  a  line  could  not  escape  us.  After  the 
cabinets  we  took  the  chairs.  The  cushions  we 
probed  with  the  fine  long  needles  you  have  seen  me 
employ.  From  the  tables  we  removed  the  tops." 

"Why  so?" 

"Sometimes  the  top  of  a  table  or  other  similarly 
arranged  piece  of  furniture  is  removed  by  the  person 
wishing  to  conceal  an  article;  then  the  leg  is  exca- 
vated, the  article  deposited  within  the  cavity,  and 
the  top  replaced.  The  bottoms  and  tops  of  bed- 
posts are  employed  in  the  same  way." 

"But  could  not  the  cavity  be  detected  by  sound- 
ing? "  I  asked. 

"By  no  means,  if,  when  the  article  is  deposited,  a 
sufficient  wadding  of  cotton  be  placed  around  it. 
Besides,  hi  our  case,  we  were  obliged  to  proceed 
without  noise." 

"But  you  could  not  have  removed,  you  could  not 
have  taken  to  pieces  all  articles  of  furniture  in  which 
it  would  have  been  possible  to  make  a  deposit  in  the 
manner  you  mention.  A  letter  may  be  compressed 
into  a  thin  spiral  roll,  not  differing  much  in  shape  or 
bulk  from  a  large  knitting-needle,  and  in  this  form  it 
might  be  inserted  into  the  rung  of  a  chair,  for 
11 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

example.  You  did  not  take  to  pieces  all  the 
chairs?" 

"Certainly  not,  but  we  did  better:  we  examined 
the  rungs  of  every  chair  in  the  hotel,  and,  indeed,  the 
jointings  of  every  description  of  furniture,  by  the  aid 
of  a  most  powerful  microscope.  Had  there  been  any 
traces  of  recent  disturbance  we  should  not  have 
failed  to  detect  it  instantly.  A  single  grain  of 
gimlet-dust,  for  example,  would  have  been  as  obvious 
as  an  apple.  Any  disorder  in  the  gluing,  any  un- 
usual gaping  in  the  joints,  would  have  sufficed  to 
insure  detection." 

"I  presume  you  looked  to  the  mirrors,  between 
the  boards  and  the  plates,  and  you  probed  the  beds 
and  the  bedclothes,  as  well  as  the  curtains  and 
carpets." 

"That  of  course;  and  when  we  had  absolutely 
completed  every  particle  of  the  furniture  in  this 
way,  then  we  examined  the  house  itself.  We  divided 
its  entire  surface  into  compartments,  which  we 
numbered,  so  that  none  might  be  missed;  then  we 
scrutinized  each  individual  square  inch  throughout 
the  premises,  including  the  two  houses  immediately 
adjoining,  with  the  microscope,  as  before." 

"The  two  houses  adjoining!"  I  exclaimed;  "you 
must  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

"We  had;  but  the  reward  offered  is  prodigious." 

"You  include  the  grounds  about  the  houses?" 

"All  the  grounds  are  paved  with  brick.  They 
gave  us  comparatively  little  trouble.  We  examined 
12 


The  Purloined  Letter 

the  moss  between  the  bricks  and  found  it  undis- 
turbed." 

"You  looked  among  D — 's  papers,  of  course,  and 
into  the  books  of  the  library?" 

"Certainly;  we  opened  every  package  and  parcel; 
we  not  only  opened  every  book,  but  we  turned  over 
every  leaf  in  each  volume,  not  contenting  ourselves 
with  a  mere  shake,  according  to  the  fashion  of  some 
of  our  police  officers.  We  also  measured  the  thick- 
ness of  every  book-cover  with  the  most  accurate 
measurement,  and  applied  to  each  the  most  jealous 
scrutiny  of  the  microscope.  Had  any  of  the  bind- 
ings been  recently  meddled  with,  it  would  have  been 
utterly  impossible  that  the  fact  should  have  escaped 
observation.  Some  five  or  six  volumes,  just  from 
the  hands  of  the  binder,  we  carefully  probed,  longi- 
tudinally, with  the  needles." 

"You  explored  the  floors  beneath  the  carpets?" 

"Beyond  doubt.  We  removed  every  carpet  and 
examined  the  boards  with  the  microscope." 

"And  the  paper  on  the  walls?" 

"Yes." 

"You  looked  into  the  cellars?" 

"We  did." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "you  have  been  making  a  mis- 
calculation, and  the  letter  is  not  upon  the  premises, 
as  you  suppose." 

"I  fear  you  are  right  there,"  said  the  Prefect. 
"And  now,  Dupin,  what  would  you  advise  me  to 
do?" 

13 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"To  make  a  thorough  research  of  the  premises." 

"That  is  absolutely  needless,"  replied  G — .  "I 
am  not  more  sure  that  I  breathe  than  I  am  that  the 
letter  is  not  at  the  hotel." 

"  I  have  no  better  advice  to  give  you, "  said  Dupin. 
"You  have,  of  course,  an  accurate  description  of  the 
letter?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  and  here  the  Prefect,  producing  a 
memorandum-book,  proceeded  to  read  aloud  a 
minute  account  of  the  internal,  and  especially  of  the 
external,  appearance  of  the  missing  document. 
Soon  after  finishing  the  perusal  of  this  description  he 
took  his  departure,  more  entirely  depressed  in  spirits 
than  I  had  ever  known  the  good  gentleman  before. 

In  about  a  month  afterward  he  paid  us  another 
visit,  and  found  us  occupied  very  nearly  as  before. 
He  took  a  pipe  and  a  chair  and  entered  into  some 
ordinary  conversation.  At  length  I  said: 

"Well,  but,  G — ,  what  of  the  purloined  letter? 
I  presume  you  have  at  last  made  up  your  mind  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  overreaching  the  Minister?  " 

"Confound  him!  say  I — yes;  I  made  the  re-exam- 
ination, however,  as  Dupin  suggested,  but  it  was  all 
labour  lost,  as  I  knew  it  would  be." 

"How  much  was  the  reward  offered,  did  you  say?  " 
asked  Dupin. 

"Why,  a  very  great  deal,  a  very  liberal  reward;  I 
don't  like  to  say  how  much,  precisely;  but  one  thing 
I  will  say, — that  I  wouldn't  mind  giving  my  in- 
dividual check  for  fifty  thousand  francs  to  anyone 
14 


The  Purloined  Letter 

who  could  obtain  me  that  letter.  The  fact  is,  it  is 
becoming  of  more  and  more  importance  every  day; 
and  the  reward  has  been  lately  doubled.  If  it  were 
trebled,  however,  I  could  do  no  more  than  I  have 
done." 

"  Why,  yes, "  said  Dupin,  drawlingly,  between  the 
whiffs  of  his  meerschaum,  "I  really — think,  G — , 
you  have  not  exerted  yourself — to  the  utmost  in  this 
matter.  You  might — do  a  little  more,  I  think,  eh?" 

"How?  in  what  way?" 

"Why — puff,  puff — you  might — puff,  puff — em- 
ploy counsel  in  the  matter,  eh? — puff,  puff,  puff. 
Do  you  remember  the  story  they  tell  of  Abernethy?" 

"No;  hang  Abernethy!" 

"To  be  sure!  hang  him  and  welcome.  But,  once 
upon  a  time,  a  certain  rich  miser  conceived  the  design 
of  sponging  upon  this  Abernethy  for  a  medical 
opinion.  Getting  up,  for  this  purpose,  an  ordinary 
conversation  in  a  private  company,  he  insinuated  his 
case  to  the  physician  as  that  of  an  imaginary  in- 
dividual. 

"'We  will  suppose,'  said  the  miser,  'that  his 
symptoms  are  such  and  such;  now,  Doctor,  what 
would  you  have  directed  him  to  take?' 

"'Take!'  said  Abernethy,  'why,  take  advice,  to  be 
sure.' " 

"But,"  said  the  Prefect,  a  little  discomposed, 
"I  am  perfectly  willing  to  take  advice  and  to  pay 
for  it.    I  would  really  give  fifty  thousand  francs  to 
anyone  who  would  aid  me  in  the  matter." 
15 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"In  that  case,"  replied  Dupin,  opening  a  drawer 
and  producing  a  checkbook,  "you  may  as  well  fill  me 
up  a  check  for  the  amount  mentioned.  When  you 
have  signed  it  I  will  hand  you  the  letter." 

I  was  astounded.  The  Prefect  appeared  abso- 
lutely thunderstricken.  For  some  minutes  he  re- 
mained speechless  and  motionless,  looking  incredu- 
lously at  my  friend  with  open  mouth,  and  eyes  that 
seemed  starting  from  their  sockets;  then,  apparently 
recovering  himself  in  some  measure,  he  seized  a  pen, 
and  after  several  pauses  and  vacant  stares  finally 
filled  up  and  signed  a  check  for  fifty  thousand  francs 
and  handed  it  across  the  table  to  Dupin.  The  latter 
examined  it  carefully  and  deposited  it  in  his  pocket- 
book;  then,  unlocking  an  escritoire,  took  thence  a 
letter  and  gave  it  to  the  Prefect.  This  functional 
grasped  it  in  a  perfect  agony  of  joy,  opened  it  with  a 
trembling  hand,  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  its  contents, 
and  then,  scrambling  and  struggling  to  the  door, 
rushed  at  length  unceremoniously  from  the  room  and 
from  the  house  without  having  uttered  a  syllable 
since  Dupin  had  requested  him  to  fill  up  the  check. 

When  he  had  gone,  my  friend  entered  into  some 
explanations. 

"The  Parisian  police,"  he  said,  "are  exceedingly 
able  in  their  way.  They  are  persevering,  ingenious, 
cunning,  and  thoroughly  versed  in  the  knowledge 
which  their  duties  seem  chiefly  to  demand.  Thus, 
when  G —  detailed  to  us  his  mode  of  searching  the 
premises  at  the  Hotel  D — ,  I  felt  entire  confidence 
16 


The  Purloined  Letter 

in  his  having  made  a  satisfactory  investigation,  so 
far  as  his  labours  extended." 

"'So  far  as  his  labours  extended'?  "  said  I. 

"Yes,"  said  Dupin.  "The  measures  adopted 
were  not  only  the  best  of  their  kind,  but  carried  out  to 
absolute  perfection.  Had  the  letter  been  deposited 
within  the  range  of  their  search,  these  fellows  would, 
beyond  a  question,  have  found  it." 

I  merely  laughed,  but  he  seemed  quite  serious  in 
all  that  he  said. 

"The  measures,  then,"  he  continued,  "were  good 
in  their  kind  and  well  executed;  their  defect  lay  in 
their  being  inapplicable  to  the  case  and  to  the  man. 
A  certain  set  of  highly  ingenious  resources  are,  with 
the  Prefect,  a  sort  of  Procrustean  bed,  to  which  he 
forcibly  adapts  his  designs.  But  he  perpetually 
errs  by  being  too  deep  or  too  shallow  for  the  matter 
in  hand;  and  many  a  schoolboy  is  a  better  reasoner 
than  he.  I  knew  one  about  eight  years  of  age, 
whose  success  at  guessing  in  the  game  of  'even  and 
odd'  attracted  universal  admiration.  This  game  is 
simple,  and  is  played  with  marbles.  One  player 
holds  in  his  hand  a  number  of  these  toys  and 
demands  of  another  whether  that  number  is  even  or 
odd.  If  the  guess  is  right,  the  guesser  wins  one;  if 
wrong,  he  loses  one.  The  boy  to  whom  I  allude  won 
all  the  marbles  of  the  school.  Of  course  he  had  some 
principle  of  guessing;  and  this  lay  in  mere  observa- 
tion and  admeasurement  of  the  astuteness  of  his 
opponents.  For  example,  an  arrant  simpleton  is  his 
17 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

opponent,  and,  holding  up  his  closed  hand,  asks, 
'Are  they  even  or  odd?'  Our  schoolboy  replies, 
'Odd,'  and  loses;  but  upon  the  second  trial  he  wins, 
for  he  then  says  to  himself:  'The  simpleton  had 
them  even  upon  the  first  trial,  and  his  amount  of  cun- 
ning is  just  sufficient  to  make  him  have  them  odd 
upon  the  second;  I  will  therefore  guess  odd;'  he 
guesses  odd  and  wins.  Now,  with  a  simpleton  a 
degree  above  the  first,  he  would  have  reasoned  thus: 
'  This  fellow  finds  that  in  the  first  instance  I  guessed 
odd,  and  in  the  second  he  will  propose  to  himself, 
upon  the  first  impulse,  a  simple  variation  from  even 
to  odd,  as  did  the  first  simpleton;  but  then  a  second 
thought  will  suggest  that  this  is  too  simple  a  varia- 
tion, and  finally  he  will  decide  upon  putting  it  even 
as  before.  I  will  therefore  guess  even;' — he  guesses 
even  and  wins.  Now  this  mode  of  reasoning  in  the 
schoolboy,  whom  his  fellows  termed  'lucky,' — what, 
in  its  last  analysis,  is  it?" 

"It  is  merely,"  I  said,  "an  identification  of  the 
reasoner's  intellect  with  that  of  his  opponent." 

"It  is,"  said  Dupin;  "and  upon  inquiring  of  the 
boy  by  what  means  he  effected  the  thorough  identi- 
fication in  which  his  success  consisted,  I  received 
answer  as  follows:  'When  I  wish  to  find  out  how 
wise,  or  how  stupid,  or  how  good,  or  how  wicked  is 
anyone,  or  what  are  his  thoughts  at  the  moment, 
I  fashion  the  expression  of  my  face,  as  accurately  as 
possible,  in  accordance  with  the  expression  of  his  and 
then  wait  to  see  what  thoughts  or  sentiments  arise  in 
18 


The  Purloined  Letter 

my  mind  or  heart,  as  if  to  match  or  correspond  with 
the  expression.'  This  response  of  the  schoolboy  lies 
at  the  bottom  of  all  the  spurious  profundity  which 
has  been  attributed  to  Rochefoucauld,  to  La  Bruyere, 
to  Machiavelli,  and  to  Campanella." 

"And  the  identification,"  I  said,  "of  the  reasoner's 
intellect  with  that  of  his  opponent  depends,  if  I 
understand  you  aright,  upon  the  accuracy  with 
which  the  opponent's  intellect  is  admeasured." 

"For  its  practical  value  it  depends  upon  this," 
replied  Dupin;  "and  the  Prefect  and  his  cohort  fail 
so  frequently,  first,  by  default  of  this  identification, 
and,  secondly,  by  ill-admeasurement,  or  rather 
through  non-admeasurement,  of  the  intellect  with 
which  they  are  engaged.  They  consider  only  their 
own  ideas  of  ingenuity;  and,  in  searching  for  anything 
hidden,  advert  only  to  the  modes  in  which  they 
would  have  hidden  it.  They  are  right  in  this  much, 
that  their  own  ingenuity  is  a  faithful  representative 
of  that  of  the  mass;  but  when  the  cunning  of  the 
individual  felon  is  diverse  in  character  from  their 
own  the  felon  foils  them,  of  course.  This  always 
happens  when  it  is  above  their  own,  and  very  usually 
when  it  is  below.  They  have  no  variation  of  princi- 
ple in  their  investigations;  at  best,  when  urged  by 
some  unusual  emergency,  by  some  extraordinary 
reward,  they  extend  or  exaggerate  their  old  modes 
of  practice  without  touching  their  principles.  What, 
for  example,  in  this  case  of  D — ,  has  been  done  to 
vary  the  principle  of  action?  What  is  all  this  boring, 
19 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

and  probing,  and  sounding,  and  scrutinizing  with  the 
microscope,  and  dividing  the  surface  of  the  building 
into  registered  square  inches;  what  is  it  all  but  an 
exaggeration  of  the  application  of  the  one  principle 
or  set  of  principles  of  search,  which  are  based  upon 
the  one  set  of  notions  regarding  human  ingenuity,  to 
which  the  Prefect,  in  the  long  routine  of  his  duty, 
has  been  accustomed?  Do  you  not  see  he  has  taken 
it  for  granted  that  all  men  proceed  to  conceal  a  letter, 
not  exactly  in  a  gimlet-hole  bored  in  a  chair-leg, 
but,  at  least,  in  some  out-of-the-way  hole  or  corner 
suggested  by  the  same  tenor  of  thought  which  would 
urge  a  man  to  secrete  a  letter  in  a  gimlet-hole  bored 
in  a  chair-leg?  And  do  you  not  see,  also,  that  such 
recherches  nooks  for  concealment  are  adapted  only 
for  ordinary  occasions,  and  would  be  adopted  only 
by  ordinary  intellects;  for,  in  all  cases  of  conceal- 
ment, a  disposal  of  the  article  concealed,  a  disposal 
of  it  in  this  recherche  manner,  is,  in  the  very  first 
instance,  presumable  and  presumed;  and  thus  its 
discovery  depends,  not  at  all  upon  the  acumen,  but 
altogether  upon  the  mere  care,  patience,  and  deter- 
mination of  the  seekers;  and  where  the  case  is  of 
importance,  or,  what  amounts  to  the  same  thing  in 
the  policial  eyes,  when  the  reward  is  of  magnitude, 
the  qualities  in  question  have  never  been  known  to 
fail.  You  will  now  understand  what  I  meant  in 
suggesting  that,  had  the  purloined  letter  been  hidden 
anywhere  within  the  limits  of  the  Prefect's  exam- 
ination,— in  other  words,  had  the  principle  of  its  con- 
20 


The  Purloined  Letter 

cealment  been  comprehended  within  the  principles 
of  the  Prefect, — its  discovery  would  have  been  a 
matter  altogether  beyond  question.  This  function- 
ary, however,  has  been  thoroughly  mystified;  and 
the  remote  source  of  his  defeat  lies  in  the  supposition 
that  the  Minister  is  a  fool,  because  he  has  acquired 
renown  as  a  poet.  All  fools  are  poets;  this  the 
Prefect  feels;  and  he  is  merely  guilty  of  a  non  dis- 
tributio  medii  in  thence  inferring  that  all  poets  are 
fools." 

"But  is  this  really  the  poet?"  I  asked.  "There 
are  two  brothers,  I  know;  and  both  have  attained 
reputation  in  letters.  The  Minister,  I  believe,  has 
written  learnedly  on  the  Differential  Calculus.  He 
is  a  mathematician  and  no  poet." 

"You  are  mistaken;  I  know  him  well;  he  is  both. 
As  poet  and  mathematician,  he  would  reason  well;  as 
mere  mathematician,  he  could  not  have  reasoned 
at  all,  and  thus  would  have  been  at  the  mercy  of  the 
Prefect." 

"You  surprise  me,"  I  said,  "by  these  opinions, 
which  have  been  contradicted  by  the  voice  of  the 
world.  You  do  not  mean  to  set  at  naught  the  well- 
digested  idea  of  centuries?  The  mathematical 
reason  has  long  been  regarded  as  the  reason  par 
excellence" 

"'H  y  a  a  parier,'  "  replied  Dupin,  quoting  from 
Chamfort,  "'que  toute  idee  publique,  toute  conven- 
tion recue,  est  une  sottise,  car  elle  a  convenue  au 
plus  grand  nombre.'  The  mathematicians,  I  grant 
21 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

you,  have  done  their  best  to  promulgate  the  popular 
error  to  which  you  allude,  and  which  is  none  the  less 
an  error  for  its  promulgation  as  truth.  With  an  art 
worthy  a  better  cause,  for  example,  they  have  insinu- 
ated the  term  'analysis'  into  application  to  algebra. 
The  French  are  the  originators  of  this  particular 
deception;  but  if  a  term  is  of  any  importance,  if 
words  derive  any  value  from  applicability,  then 
'analysis'  conveys  'algebra'  about  as  much  as,  in 
Latin,  'ambitus'  implies  'ambition,'  'religio'  'reli- 
gion/ or  'homines  honesti'  a  set  of  honourable 
men." 

"You  have  a  quarrel  on  hand,  I  see,"  said  I, 
"with  some  of  the  algebraists  of  Paris;  but  proceed." 

"I  dispute  the  availability,  and  thus  the  value  of 
that  reason  which  is  cultivated  in  any  especial  form 
other  than  the  abstractly  logical.  I  dispute,  in 
particular,  the  reason  educed  by  mathematical 
study.  The  mathematics  are  the  science  of  form  and 
quantity;  mathematical  reasoning  is  merely  logic 
applied  to  observation  upon  form  and  quantity. 
The  great  error  lies  in  supposing  that  even  the 
truths  of  what  is  called  pure  algebra  are  abstract  or 
general  truths.  And  this  error  is  so  egregious  that 
I  am  confounded  at  the  universality  with  which  it 
has  been  received.  Mathematical  axioms  are  not 
axioms  of  general  truth.  What  is  true  of  relation, 
of  form  and  quantity,  is  often  grossly  false  in  regard 
to  morals,  for  example.  In  this  latter  science  it  is 
very  usually  untrue  that  the  aggregated  parts  are 
22 


The  Purloined  Letter 

equal  to  the  whole.  In  chemistry,  also,  the  axiom 
fails.  In  the  consideration  of  motive  it  fails;  for 
two  motives,  each  of  a  given  value,  have  not,  neces- 
sarily, a  value,  when  united,  equal  to  the  sum  of  their 
values  apart.  There  are  numerous  other  mathe- 
matical truths  which  are  only  truths  within  the 
limits  of  relation.  But  the  mathematician  argues 
from  his  finite  truths,  through  habit,  as  if  they  were 
of  an  absolutely  general  applicability,  as  the  world 
indeed  imagines  them  to  be.  Bryant,  in  his  very 
learned  Mythology,  mentions  an  analogous  source  of 
error  when  he  says  that  'although  the  pagan  fables 
are  not  believed,  yet  we  forget  ourselves  continually 
and  make  inferences  from  them  as  existing  realities.' 
With  the  algebraists,  however,  who  are  pagans 
themselves,  the  'pagan  fables'  are  believed,  and  the 
inferences  are  made,  not  so  much  through  lapse  of 
memory  as  through  an  unaccountable  addling  of  the 
brains.  In  short,  I  never  yet  encountered  the  mere 
mathematician  who  could  be  trusted  out  of  equal 
roots,  or  one  who  did  not  clandestinely  hold  it  as 
a  point  of  his  faith  that  xz+px  was  absolutely  and 
unconditionally  equal  to  q.  Say  to  one  of  these 
gentlemen,  by  way  of  experiment,  if  you  please, 
that  you  believe  occasions  may  occur  where  x*+px 
is  not  altogether  equal  to  q,  and,  having  made  him 
understand  what  you  mean,  get  out  of  his  reach  as 
speedily  as  convenient,  for,  beyond  doubt,  he  will 
endeavour  to  knock  you  down. 

"I  mean  to  say,"  continued  Dupin,  while  I  merely 
23 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

laughed  at  his  last  observations,  "  that  if  the  Minister 
had  been  no  more  than  a  mathematician,  the  Prefect 
would  have  been  under  no  necessity  of  giving  me 
this  check.     I  knew  him,  however,  as  both  mathe- 
matician and  poet,  and  my  measures  were  adapted 
to  his  capacity  with  reference  to  the  circumstances 
by  which  he  was  surrounded.    I  knew  him  as  a 
courtier,  too,  and  as  a  bold  intriguant.     Such  a 
man,  I  considered,  could  not  fail  to  be  aware  of  the 
ordinary  policial  modes  of  action.    He  could  not 
have  failed  to  anticipate — and  events  have  proved 
that  he  did  not  fail  to  anticipate — the  waylayings  to 
which  he  was  subjected.     He  must  have  foreseen,  I 
reflected,  the  secret  investigations  of  his  premises. 
His  frequent  absences  from  home  at  night,  which 
were  hailed  by  the  Prefect  as  certain  aids  to  his 
success,  I  regarded  only  as  ruses  to  afford  oppor- 
tunity for  thorough  search  to  the  police,  and  thus 
the  sooner  to  impress  them  with  the  conviction,  to 
which  G — ,  in  fact,  did  finally  arrive, — the  con- 
viction that  the  letter  was  not  upon  the  premises. 
I  felt,  also,  that  the  whole  train  of  thought,  which 
I  was  at  some  pains  in  detailing  to  you  just  nowj, 
concerning  the  invariable  principle  of  policial  action 
in  searches  for  articles  concealed, — I  felt  that  this 
whole    train    of    thought    would   necessarily   pass 
through  the  mind  of  the  Minister.     It  would  impera- 
tively lead  him,  to  despise  all  the  ordinary  nooks  of 
concealment.    He  could  not,  I  reflected,  be  so  weak 
as  not  to  see  that  the  most  intricate  and  remote 
24 


The  Purloined  Letter 

recess  of  his  hotel  would  be  as  open  as  his  com- 
monest closets  to  the  eyes,  to  the  probes,  to  the 
gimlets,  and  to  the  microscopes  of  the  Prefect.  I 
saw,  in  fine,  that  he  would  be  driven,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  to  simplicity,  if  not  deliberately  induced 
to  it  as  a  matter  of  choice.  You  will  remember, 
perhaps,  how  desperately  the  Prefect  laughed  when 
I  suggested,  upon  our  first  interview,  that  it  was  just 
possible  this  mystery  troubled  him  so  much  on  ac- 
count of  its  being  so  very  self-evident." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "I  remember  his  merriment  well. 
I  really  thought  he  would  have  fallen  into  convul- 
sions." 

"The  material  world,"  continued  Dupin, 
"abounds  with  very  strict  analogies  to  the  im- 
material; and  thus  some  colour  of  truth  has  been 
given  to  the  rhetorical  dogma  that  metaphor, 
or  simile,  may  be  made  to  strengthen  an  argument 
as  well  as  to  embellish  a  description.  The  principle 
of  the  vis  inertia,  for  example,  seems  to  be  identical 
in  physics  and  metaphysics.  It  is  not  more  true  in 
the  former,  that  a  large  body  is  with  more  difficulty 
set  in  motion  than  a  smaller  one,  and  that  its  subse- 
quent momentum  is  commensurate  with  this  diffi- 
culty, than  it  is,  in  the  latter,  that  intellects  of  the 
vaster  capacity,  while  more  forcible,  more  constant, 
and  more  eventful  in  their  movements  than  those  of 
inferior  grade,  are  yet  the  less  readily  moved,  and 
more  embarrassed,  and  full  of  hesitation  in  the  first 
few  steps  of  their  progress.  Again:  have  you  ever 
25 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

noticed  which  of  the  street  signs,  over  the  shop 
doors,  are  the  most  attractive  of  attention?  " 

"I  have  never  given  the  matter  a  thought,"  I 
said. 

"There  is  a  game  of  puzzles,"  he  resumed,  "which 
is  played  upon  a  map.  One  party  playing  requires 
another  to  find  a  given  word,  the  name  of  town, 
river,  state,  or  empire, — any  word,  in  short,  upon 
the  motley  and  perplexed  surface  of  the  chart.  A 
novice  in  the  game  generally  seeks  to  embarrass  his 
opponents  by  giving  them  the  most  minutely  lettered 
names;  but  the  adept  selects  such  words  as  stretch, 
in  large  characters,  from  one  end  of  the  chart  to  the 
other.  These,  like  the  over-largely  lettered  signs 
and  placards  of  the  street,  escape  observation  by 
dint  of  being  excessively  obvious;  and  here  the 
physical  oversight  is  precisely  analogous  with  the 
moral  inapprehension  by  which  the  intellect  suffers 
to  pass  unnoticed  those  considerations  which  are 
too  obtrusively  and  too  palpably  self-evident.  But 
this  is  a  point,  it  appears,  somewhat  above  or  be- 
neath the  understanding  of  the  Prefect.  He  never 
once  thought  it  probable,  or  possible,  that  the 
Minister  had  deposited  the  letter  immediately 
beneath  the  nose  of  the  whole  world  by  way  of  best 
preventing  any  portion  of  that  world  from  perceiving 
it. 

"But  the  more  I  reflected  upon  the  daring,  dash- 
ing, and  discriminating  ingenuity  of  D — ;  upon  the 
fact  that  the  document  must  always  have  been  at 
26 


The  Purloined  Letter 

hand,  if  he  intended  to  use  it  to  good  purpose;  and 
upon  the  decisive  evidence,  obtained  by  the  Prefect, 
that  it  was  not  hidden  within  the  limits  of  that 
dignitary's  ordinary  search,  the  more  satisfied  I 
became  that,  to  conceal  this  letter,  the  Minister  had 
resorted  to  the  comprehensive  and  sagacious  expedi- 
ent of  not  attempting  to  conceal  it  at  all. 

"Full  of  these  ideas,  I  prepared  myself  with  a 
pair  of  green  spectacles,  and  called  one  fine  morning, 
quite  by  accident,  at  the  ministerial  hotel.  I  found 
D —  at  home,  yawning,  lounging,  and  dawdling,  as 
usual,  and  pretending  to  be  in  the  last  extremity  of 
ennui.  He  is,  perhaps,  the  most  really  energetic 
human  being  now  alive;  but  that  is  only  when  no- 
body sees  him. 

"To  be  even  with  him,  I  complained  of  my  weak 
eyes,  and  lamented  the  necessity  of  the  spectacles 
under  cover  of  which  I  cautiously  and  thoroughly 
surveyed  the  whole  apartment,  while  seemingly 
intent  only  upon  the  conversation  of  my  host. 

"I  paid  especial  attention  to  a  large  writing- 
table  near  which  he  sat,  and  upon  which  lay  con- 
fusedly some  miscellaneous  letters  and  other  papers, 
with  one  or  two  musical  instruments  and  a  few 
books.  Here,  however,  after  a  long  and  very 
deliberate  scrutiny,  I  saw  nothing  to  excite  particular 
suspicion. 

"At  length  my  eyes,  in  going  the  circuit  of  the 
room,  fell  upon  a  trumpery  filigree  card-rack  of 
pasteboard,  that  hung  dangling  by  a  dirty  blue 
27 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

ribbon  from  a  little  brass  knob  just  beneath  the 
middle  of  the  mantelpiece.  In  this  rack,  which  had 
three  or  four  compartments,  were  five  or  six  visiting- 
cards  and  a  solitary  letter.  This  last  was  much 
soiled  and  crumpled.  It  was  torn  nearly  in  two, 
across  the  middle,  as  if  a  design,  in  the  first  instance, 
to  tear  it  entirely  up  as  worthless,  had  been  altered, 
or  stayed,  in  the  second.  It  had  a  large  black  seal, 
bearing  the  D —  cipher  very  conspicuously,  and  was 
addressed,  in  a  diminutive  female  hand,  to  D — , 
the  Minister,  himself.  It  was  thrust  carelessly, 
and  even,  as  it  seemed,  contemptuously,  into  one  of 
the  uppermost  divisions  of  the  rack. 

"No  sooner  had  I  glanced  at  this  letter  than  I 
concluded  it  to  be  that  of  which  I  was  hi  search. 
To  be  sure,  it  was,  to  all  appearance,  radically 
different  from  the  one  of  which  the  Prefect  had  read 
us  so  minute  a  description.  Here  the  seal  was  large 
and  black,  with  the  D —  cipher,  there  it  was  small 
and  red,  with  the  ducal  arms  of  the  S —  family, 
Here,  the  address,  to  the  Minister,  was  diminutive 
and  feminine;  there  the  superscription,  to  a  certain 
royal  personage,  was  markedly  bold  and  decided;  the 
size  alone  formed  a  point  of  correspondence.  But, 
then,  the  radicalness  of  these  differences,  which  was 
excessive:  the  dirt;  the  soiled  and  torn  condition  of 
the  paper,  so  inconsistent  with  the  true  methodical 
habits  of  D — ,  and  so  suggestive  of  a  design  to 
delude  the  beholder  into  an  idea  of  the  worthlessness 
of  the  document, — these  things,  together  with  the 
28 


The  Purloined  Letter 

hyperobtrusive  situation  of  this  document,  full  in  the 
view  of  every  visitor,  and  thus  exactly  in  accordance 
with  the  conclusions  to  which  I  had  previously 
arrived;  these  things,  I  say,  were  strongly  corrobora- 
tive of  suspicion,  in  one  who  came  with  the  intention 
to  suspect. 

"I  protracted  my  visit  as  long  as  possible,  and, 
while  I  maintained  a  most  animated  discussion  with 
the  Minister  upon  a  topic  which  I  knew  well  had 
never  failed  to  interest  and  excite  him,  I  kept  my 
attention  really  riveted  upon  the  letter.  In  this 
examination,  I  committed  to  memory  its  external 
appearance  and  arrangement  in  the  rack;  and  also 
fell,  at  length,  upon  a  discovery  which  set  at  rest 
whatever  trivial  doubt  I  might  have  entertained. 
In  scrutinizing  the  edges  of  the  paper,  I  observed 
them  to  be  more  chafed  than  seemed  necessary. 
They  presented  the  broken  appearance  which  is 
manifested  when  a  stiff  paper,  having  been  once 
folded  and  pressed  with  a  folder,  is  refolded  in  a 
reversed  direction,  in  the  same  creases  or  edges  which 
had  formed  the  original  fold.  This  discovery  was 
sufficient.  It  was  clear  to  me  that  the  letter  had 
been  turned,  as  a  glove,  inside  out,  redirected  and 
resealed.  I  bade  the  Minister  good-morning,  and 
took  my  departure  at  once,  leaving  a  gold  snuff-box 
upon  the  table. 

"The  next  morning  I  called  for  the  snuff-box, 
when  we  resumed,  quite  eagerly,  the  conversation  of 
the  preceding  day.  While  thus  engaged,  however,  a 
29 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

loud  report,  as  if  of  a  pistol,  was  heard  immediately 
beneath  the  windows  of  the  hotel,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  series  of  fearful  screams,  and  the  shout- 
ings of  a  terrified  mob.  D —  rushed  to  a  casement, 
threw  it  open,  and  looked  out.  In  the  meantime 
I  stepped  to  the  card-rack,  took  the  letter,  put  it  in 
my  pocket,  and  replaced  it  by  a  fac-simile  (so  far 
as  regards  externals)  which  I  had  carefully  prepared 
at  my  lodgings,  imitating  the  D —  cipher  very 
readily  by  means  of  a  seal  formed  of  bread. 

"The  disturbance  in  the  street  had  been  occasioned 
by  the  frantic  behaviour  of  a  man  with  a  musket. 
He  had  fired  it  among  a  crowd  of  women  and  children. 
It  proved,  however,  to  have  been  without  a  ball, 
and  the  fellow  was  suffered  to  go  his  way  as  a  lunatic 
or  a  drunkard.  When  he  had  gone,  D —  came  from 
the  window,  whither  I  had  followed  him  immedi- 
ately upon  securing  the  object  in  view.  Soon 
afterward  I  bade  him  farewell.  The  pretended 
lunatic  was  a  man  in  my  own  pay." 

"But  what  purpose  had  you,"  I  asked,  "in  re- 
placing the  letter  by  a  fac-simile?  Would  it  not  have 
been  better,  at  the  first  visit,  to  have  seized  it  openly 
and  departed?  " 

"D — ,"  replied  Dupin,  "is  a  desperate  man,  and 
a  man  of  nerve.  His  hotel,  too,  is  not  without 
attendants  devoted  to  his  interests.  Had  I  made 
the  wild  attempt  you  suggest,  I  might  never  have 
left  the  ministerial  presence  alive.  The  good  people 
of  Paris  might  have  heard  of  me  no  more.  But  I 
30 


The  Purloined  Letter 

had  an  object  apart  from  these  considerations.  You 
know  my  political  prepossessions.  In  this  matter, 
I  act  as  a  partisan  of  the  lady  concerned.  For 
eighteen  months  the  Minister  has  had  her  in  his 
power.  She  has  now  him  in  hers,  since,  being  un- 
aware that  the  letter  is  not  in  his  possession,  he  will 
proceed  with  his  exactions  as  if  it  was.  Thus  will 
he  inevitably  commit  himself,  at  once,  to  his  political 
destruction.  His  downfall,  too,  will  not  be  more 
precipitate  than  awkward.  It  is  all  very  well  to 
talk  about  the  facilis  descensus  Averni;  but  in  all 
kinds  of  climbing,  as  Catalani  said  of  singing,  it  is 
far  more  easy  to  get  up  than  to  come  down.  In  the 
present  instance  I  have  no  sympathy,  at  least  no 
pity,  for  him  who  descends.  He  is  that  monstrum 
horrendum,  an  unprincipled  man  of  genius.  I  con- 
fess, however,  that  I  should  like  very  well  to  know 
the  precise  character  of  his  thoughts,  when,  being 
defied  by  her  whom  the  Prefect  terms  'a  certain 
personage,'  he  is  reduced  to  opening  the  letter  which 
I  left  for  him  in  the  card-rack." 

"  How?  did  you  put  anything  particular  in  it?  " 

"  Why,  it  did  not  seem  altogether  right  to  leave  the 

ulterior  blank;   that  would  have   been   insulting. 

D — ,  at  Vienna  once,  did  me  an  evil  turn,  which  I 

told  him,  quite  good-humouredly,  that  I  should 

remember.     So,   as   I   knew  he  would   feel  some 

curiosity  hi  regard  to  the  identity  of  the  person  who 

had  outwitted  him,  I  thought  it  a  pity  not  to  give 

him  a  clew.    He  is  well  acquainted  with  my  MS., 

31 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

and  I  just  copied  into  the  middle  of  the  blank  sheet 
the  words 

" ' — Un  dessein  si  funeste, 
S'il  n'est  digne  d'Atree,  est  digne  de  Thyeste.' 

They  are  to  be  found  in  Crebillon's  Atree." 


32 


n 

THE  BLACK  HAND 

ARTHUR  B.  REEVE* 

KENNEDY  and  I  had  been  dining  rather  late 
one  evening  at  Luigi's,  a  little  Italian  res- 
taurant on  the  lower  West  Side.  We  had 
known  the  place  well  in  our  student  days,  and  had 
made  a  point  of  visiting  it  once  a  month  since,  in 
order  to  keep  in  practice  in  the  fine  art  of  gracefully 
handling  long  shreds  of  spaghetti.  Therefore  we 
did  not  think  it  strange  when  the  proprietor  himself 
stopped  a  moment  at  our  table  to  greet  us.  Glancing 
furtively  around  at  the  other  diners,  mostly  Italians, 
he  suddenly  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  Kennedy: 

"I  have  heard  of  your  wonderful  detective  work, 
Professor.  Could  you  give  a  little  advice  in  the  case 
of  a  friend  of  mine?" 

"Surely,  Luigi.  What  is  the  case?"  asked  Craig, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair. 

Luigi  glanced  around  again  apprehensively  and 
lowered  his  voice.  "Not  so  loud,  sir.  When  you 
pay  your  check,  go  out,  walk  around  Washington 
Square,  and  come  in  at  the  private  entrance.  I'll  be 

, _  »  Permission  of  the  Author  and  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers. 
33 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

waiting  in  the  hall.    My  friend  is  dining  privately 
upstairs." 

We  lingered  a  while  over  our  chianti,  then  quietly 
paid  the  check  and  departed. 

True  to  his  word,  Luigi  was  waiting  for  us  in  the 
dark  hall.  With  a  motion  that  indicated  silence,  he 
led  us  up  the  stairs  to  the  second  floor,  and  quickly 
opened  a  door  into  what  seemed  to  be  a  fair-sized 
private  dining-room.  A  man  was  pacing  the  floor 
nervously.  On  a  table  was  some  food,  untouched. 
As  the  door  opened  I  thought  he  started  as  if  in 
fear,  and  I  am  sure  his  dark  face  blanched,  if  only 
for  an  instant.  Imagine  our  surprise  at  seeing 
Gennaro,  the  great  tenor,  with  whom  merely  to 
have  a  speaking  acquaintance  was  to  argue  oneself 
famous. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  Luigi,"  he  exclaimed  in  perfect 
English,  rich  and  mellow.  "And  who  are  these 
gentlemen?" 

Luigi  merely  replied,  "Friends,"  in  English  also, 
and  then  dropped  off  into  a  voluble,  low-toned 
explanation  in  Italian. 

I  could  see,  as  we  waited,  that  the  same  idea  had 
flashed  over  Kennedy's  mind  as  over  my  own.  It 
was  now  three  or  four  days  since  the  papers  had 
reported  the  strange  kidnapping  of  Gennaro's  five- 
year-old  daughter  Adelina,  his  only  child,  and  the 
sending  of  a  demand  for  ten  thousand  dollars  ransom, 
signed,  as  usual,  with  the  mystic  Black  Hand — a 
name  to  conjure  with  in  blackmail  and  extortion. 
34 


The  Black  Hand 

As  Signer  Gennaro  advanced  toward  us,  after  his 
short  talk  with  Luigi,  almost  before  the  introduc- 
tions were  over,  Kennedy  anticipated  him  by  say- 
ing: "I  understand,  Signor,  before  you  ask  me. 
I  have  read  all  about  it  in  the  papers.  You  want 
someone  to  help  you  catch  the  criminals  who  are 
holding  your  little  girl." 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed  Gennaro  excitedly.  "Not 
that.  I  want  to  get  my  daughter  first.  After  that, 
catch  them  if  you  can — yes,  I  should  like  to  have 
someone  do  it.  But  read  this  first  and  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  it.  How  should  I  act  to  get  my  little 
Adelina  back  without  harming  a  hair  of  her  head?" 
The  famous  singer  drew  from  a  capacious  pocket- 
book  a  dirty,  crumpled  letter,  scrawled  on  cheap 
paper. 

Kennedy  translated  it  quickly.    It  read: 

Honourable  sir:  Your  daughter  is  in  safe  hands.  But, 
by  the  saints,  if  you  give  this  letter  to  the  police  as  you  did 
the  other,  not  only  she  but  your  family  also,  someone  near  to 
you,  will  suffer.  We  will  not  fail  as  we  did  Wednesday.  If 
you  want  your  daughter  back,  go  yourself,  alone  and  without 
telling  a  soul,  to  Enrico  Albano's  Saturday  night  at  the  twelfth 
hour.  You  must  provide  yourself  with  $10,000  in  bills  hidden 
in  Saturday's  II  Progresso  Italiano.  In  the  back  room  you 
will  see  a  man  sitting  alone  at  a  table.  He  will  have  a  red 
flower  on  his  coat.  You  are  to  say,  "A  fine  opera  is  'I  Pagli- 
acci.' "  If  he  answers,  "Not  without  Gennaro,"  lay  the  news- 
paper down  on  the  table.  He  will  pick  it  up,  leaving  his  own, 
the  Bolletino.  On  the  third  page  you  will  find  written  the 
place  where  your  daughter  has  been  left  waiting  for  you.  Go 
immediately  and  get  her.  But,  by  the  God,  if  you  have  so 
35 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

much  as  the  shadow  of  the  police  near  Enrico's  your  daughter 
will  be  sent  to  you  in  a  box  that  night.  Do  not  fear  to  come. 
We  pledge  our  word  to  deal  fairly  if  you  deal  fairly.  This  is  a 
last  warning.  Lest  you  shall  forget  we  will  show  one  other 
sign  of  our  power  to-morrow. 

LA  MANO  NERA. 


The  end  of  this  letter  was  decorated  with  a  skull 
and  crossbones,  a  rough  drawing  of  a  dagger  thrust 
through  a  bleeding  heart,  a  coffin,  and,  under  all,  a 
huge  black  hand.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the 
type  of  letter.  It  was  such  as  have  of  late  years 
become  increasingly  common  in  all  our  large  cities. 

"You  have  not  showed  this  to  the  police,  I  pre- 
sume? "  asked  Kennedy. 

"Naturally  not." 

"Are  you  going  Saturday  night?" 

"I  am  afraid  to  go  and  afraid  to  stay  away,"  was 
the  reply,  and  the  voice  of  the  fif  ty-thousand-dollars- 
a-season  tenor  was  as  human  as  that  of  a  five- 
dollar-a-week  father,  for  at  bottom  all  men,  high  or 
low,  are  one. 

"'We  will  not  fail  as  we  did  Wednesday,'"  reread 
Craig.  "  What  does  that  mean?  " 

Gennaro  fumbled  in  his  pocketbook  again,  and 
at  last  drew  forth  a  typewritten  letter  bearing  the 
letterhead  of  the  Leslie  Laboratories,  Incorporated. 

"After  I  received  the  first  threat,"  explained 
Gennaro,  "my  wife  and  I  went  from  our  apart- 
ments at  the  hotel  to  her  father's,  the  banker  Cesarey 
you  know,  who  lives  on  Fifth  Avenue.  I  gave  the 
36 


The  Black  Hand 

letter  to  the  Italian  Squad  of  the  police.  The  next 
morning  my  father-in-law's  butler  noticed  some- 
thing peculiar  about  the  milk.  He  barely  touched 
some  of  it  to  his  tongue,  and  he  has  been  violently 
ill  ever  since.  I  at  once  sent  the  milk  to  the  labora- 
tory of  my  friend  Doctor  Leslie  to  have  it  analyzed. 
This  letter  shows  what  the  household  escaped." 

"My  dear  Gennaro,"  read  Kennedy.  "The  milk  submitted 
to  us  for  examination  on  the  loth  inst.  has  been  carefully 
analyzed,  and  I  beg  to  hand  you  herewith  the  result: 

"Specific  gravity  1.036  at  15  degrees  Cent. 

Water 84 . 60  per  cent. 

Casein 3.49  "  " 

Albumin 56  "  " 

Globulin 1.32  "  " 

Lactose 5.08  "  " 

Ash 72  "  « 

Fat 3.42  "  " 

Ricinus 1.19  "  " 

"Ricinus  is  a  new  and  little-known  poison  derived  from  the 
shell  of  the  castor-oil  bean.  Professor  Ehrlich  states  that  one 
gram  of  the  pure  poison  will  kill  1,500,000  guinea  pigs.  Rici- 
nus was  lately  isolated  by  Professor  Robert,  of  Rostock,  but  is 
seldom  found  except  in  an  impure  state,  though  still  very 
deadly.  It  surpasses  strychnin,  prussic  acid,  and  other 
commonly  known  drugs.  I  congratulate  you  and  yours  on 
escaping  and  shall  of  course  respect  your  wishes  absolutely 
regarding  keeping  secret  this  attempt  on  your  life.  Believe  me, 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"C.  W.  LESLIE." 

As   Kennedy  handed   the   letter   back,   he   re- 
marked   significantly:    "I   can   see    very   readily 
37 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

why  you  don't  care  to  have  the  police  figure  in 
your  case.  It  has  got  quite  beyond  ordinary  police 
methods." 

"And  to-morrow,  too,  they  are  going  to  give 
another  sign  of  their  power,"  groaned  Gennaro, 
sinking  into  the  chair  before  his  untasted  food. 

"You  say  you  have  left  your  hotel?"  inquired 
Kennedy. 

"Yes.  My  wife  insisted  that  we  would  be  more 
safely  guarded  at  the  residence  of  her  father,  the 
banker.  But  we  are  afraid  even  there  since  the 
poison  attempt.  So  I  have  come  here  secretly  to 
Luigi,  my  old  friend  Luigi,  who  is  preparing  food  for 
us,  and  in  a  few  minutes  one  of  Cesare's  automobiles 
will  be  here,  and  I  will  take  the  food  up  to  her — 
sparing  no  expense  or  trouble.  She  is  heartbroken. 
It  will  kill  her,  Professor  Kennedy,  if  anything 
happens  to  our  little  Adelina. 

"Ah,  sir,  I  am  not  poor  myself.  A  month's 
salary  at  the  opera-house,  that  is  what  they  ask  of 
me.  Gladly  would  I  give  it,  ten  thousand  dollars — 
all,  if  they  asked  it,  of  my  contract  with  Signer  Cas- 
sinelli,  the  director.  But  the  police — bah! — they 
are  all  for  catching  the  villains.  What  good  will  it 
do  me  if  they  catch  them  and  my  little  Adelina  is 
returned  to  me  dead?  It  is  all  very  well  for  the 
Anglo-Saxon  to  talk  of  justice  and  the  law,  but  I  am 
— what  you  call  it? — an  emotional  Latin.  I  want 
my  little  daughter — and  at  any  cost.  Catch  the 
villains  afterward — yes.  I  will  pay  double  then  to 
38 


The  Black  Hand 

catch  them  so  that  they  cannot  blackmail  me  again. 
Only  first  I  want  my  daughter  back." 

"And  your  father-in-law?" 

"My  father-in-law,  he  has  been  among  you  long 
enough  to  be  one  of  you.  He  has  fought  them.  He 
has  put  up  a  sign  in  his  banking-house,  'No  money 
paid  on  threats.'  But  I  say  it  is  foolish.  I  do  not 
know  America  as  well  as  he,  but  I  know  this:  the 
police  never  succeed — the  ransom  is  paid  without 
their  knowledge,  and  they  very  often  take  the 
credit.  I  say,  pay  first,  then  I  will  swear  a  righteous 
vendetta — I  will  bring  the  dogs  to  justice  with  the 
money  yet  on  them.  Only  show  me  how,  show  me 
how." 

"First  of  all,"  replied  Kennedy,  "I  want  you  to 
answer  one  question,  truthfully,  without  reserva- 
tion, as  to  a  friend.  I  am  your  friend,  believe  me. 
Is  there  any  person,  a  relative  or  acquaintance  of 
yourself  or  your  wife  or  your  father-in-law,  whom 
you  even  have  reason  to  suspect  of  being  capable  of 
extorting  money  from  you  in  this  way?  I  needn't 
say  that  is  the  experience  of  the  district  attorney's 
oifice  in  the  large  majority  of  cases  of  this  so- 
called  Black  Hand." 

"No,"  replied  the  tenor  without  hesitation. 
"I  know  that,  and  I  have  thought  about  it.  No,  I 
can  think  of  no  one.  I  know  you  Americans  often 
speak  of  the  Black  Hand  as  a  myth  coined  originally 
by  a  newspaper  writer.  Perhaps  it  has  no  organiza- 
tion. But,  Professor  Kennedy,  to  me  it  is  no  myth. 
39 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

What  if  the  real  Black  Hand  is  any  gang  of  criminals 
who  choose  to  use  that  convenient  name  to  extort 
money?  Is  it  the  less  real?  My  daughter  is  gone! " 

" Exactly,"  agreed  Kennedy.  "It  is  not  a  theory 
that  confronts  you.  It  is  a  hard,  cold  fact.  I  under- 
stand that  perfectly.  What  is  the  address  of  this 
Albano's?" 

Luigi  mentioned  a  number  on  Mulberry  Street, 
and  Kennedy  made  a  note  of  it. 

"It  is  a  gambling  saloon,"  explained  Luigi. 
"Albano  is  a  Neapolitan,  a  Camorrista,  one  of  my 
countrymen  of  whom  I  am  thoroughly  ashamed, 
Professor  Kennedy." 

"Do  you  think  this  Albano  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  letter?" 

Luigi  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Just  then  a  big  limousine  was  heard  outside. 
Luigi  picked  up  a  huge  hamper  that  was  placed  in  a 
corner  of  the  room  and,  followed  closely  by  Signer 
Gennaro,  hurried  down  to  it.  As  the  tenor  left 
us  he  grasped  our  hands  in  each  of  his. 

"I  have  an  idea  in  my  mind,"  said  Craig  simply. 
"  I  will  try  to  think  it  out  in  detail  to-night.  Where 
can  I  find  you  to-morrow?  " 

"  Come  to  me  at  the  opera-house  in  the  afternoon, 
or  if  you  want  me  sooner  at  Mr.  Cesare's  residence. 
Good  night,  and  a  thousand  thanks  to  you,  Professor 
Kennedy,  and  to  you,  also,  Mr.  Jameson.  I  trust 
you  absolutely  because  Luigi  trusts  you." 

We  sat  in  the  little  dining-room  until  we  heard  the 
40 


The  Black  Hand 

door  of  the  limousine  bang  shut  and  the  car  shoot  off 
with  the  rattle  of  the  changing  gears. 

"One  more  question,  Luigi,"  said  Craig  as  the 
door  opened  again.  "I  have  never  been  on  that 
block  in  Mulberry  Street  where  this  Albano's  is. 
Do  you  happen  to  know  any  of  the  shopkeepers  on 
it  or  near  it?  " 

"I  have  a  cousin  who  has  a  drug  store  on  the 
corner  below  Albano's,  on  the  same  side  of  the 
street." 

''Good!  Do  you  think  he  would  let  me  use  his 
store  for  a  few  minutes  Saturday  night — of  course 
without  any  risk  to  himself?" 

"I  think  I  could  arrange  it." 

"  Very  well.  Then  to-morrow,  say  at  nine  in  the 
morning,  I  will  stop  here,  and  we  will  all  go  over  to 
see  him.  Good  night,  Luigi,  and  many  thanks  for 
thinking  of  me  in  connection  with  this  case.  I've 
enjoyed  Signer  Gennaro's  singing  often  enough  at 
the  opera  to  want  to  render  him  this  service,  and 
I'm  only  too  glad  to  be  able  to  be  of  service  to  all 
honest  Italians;  that  is,  if  I  succeed  in  carrying  out 
a  plan  I  have  in  mind." 

A  little  before  nine  the  following  day  Kennedy 
and  I  dropped  into  Luigi's  again.  Kennedy  was 
carrying  a  suitcase  which  he  had  taken  over  from 
his  laboratory  to  our  rooms  the  night  before.  Luigi 
was  waiting  for  us,  and  without  losing  a  minute  we 
sallied  forth. 

By  means  of  the  tortuous  twists  of  streets  in  old! 
41 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Greenwich  village  we  came  out  at  last  on  Bleecker 
Street  and  began  walking  east  amid  the  hurly- 
burly  of  races  of  lower  New  York.  We  had  not 
quite  reached  Mulberry  Street  when  our  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  large  crowd  on  one  of  the  busy 
corners,  held  back  by  a  cordon  of  police  who  were 
endeavouring  to  keep  the  people  moving  with  that 
burly  good  nature  which  the  six-foot  Irish  police- 
man displays  toward  the  five-foot  burden-bearers  of 
southern  and  eastern  Europe  who  throng  New  York. 

Apparently,  we  saw,  as  we  edged  up  into  the 
front  of  the  crowd,  here  was  a  building  whose  whole 
front  had  literally  been  torn  off  and  wrecked.  The 
thick  plate-glass  of  the  windows  was  smashed  to  a 
mass  of  greenish  splinters  on  the  sidewalk,  while  the 
windows  of  the  upper  floors  and  for  several  houses 
down  the  block  in  either  street  were  likewise  broken. 
Some  thick  iron  bars  which  had  formerly  protected 
the  windows  were  now  bent  and  twisted.  A  huge 
hole  yawned  in  the  floor  inside  the  doorway,  and 
peering  in  we  could  see  the  desk  and  chairs  a  tangled 
mass  of  kindling. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  inquired  of  an  officer 
near  me,  displaying  my  reporter's  fire-line  badge, 
more  for  its  moral  effect  than  in  the  hope  of  getting 
any  real  information  in  these  days  of  enforced  silence 
toward  the  press. 

"Black  Hand  bomb,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"Whew!"  I  whistled.     "Anyone  hurt?" 

"They  don't  usually  kill  anyone,  do  they?" 
42 


The  Black  Hand 

asked  the  officer  by  way  of  reply  to  test  my  acquaint- 
ance with  such  things. 

"No,"  I  admitted.  "They  destroy  more  prop- 
erty than  lives.  But  did  they  get  anyone  this 
time?  This  must  have  been  a  thoroughly  over- 
loaded bomb,  I  should  judge  by  the  looks  of  things." 

"  Came  pretty  close  to  it.  The  bank  hadn't  any 
more  than  opened  when,  bang!  went  this  gas-pipe- 
and-dynamite  thing.  Crowd  collected  before  the 
smoke  had  fairly  cleared.  Man  who  owns  the  bank 
was  hurt,  but  not  badly.  Now  come,  beat  it  down 
to  headquarters  if  you  want  to  find  out  any  more. 
You'll  find  it  printed  on  the  pink  slips — the  'squeal 
book' — by  this  tune.  'Gainst  the  rules  for  me  to 
talk, "  he  added  with  a  good-natured  grin,  then  to  the 
crowd:  "Gwan,  now.  You're  blockin'  traffic. 
Keep  movin'." 

I  turned  to  Craig  and  Luigi.  Their  eyes  were 
riveted  on  the  big  gilt  sign,  half  broken,  and  all 
askew  overhead.  It  read: 

GIRO  DI   CESARE  &  CO.   BANKERS 
NEW   YORK,    GENOA,    NAPLES,   ROME,   PALERMO 

"This  is  the  reminder  so  that  Gennaro  and  his 
father-in-law  will  not  forget,"  I  gasped. 

"Yes,"  added  Craig,  pulling  us  away,  "and 
Cesare  himself  is  wounded,  too.  Perhaps  that  was 
for  putting  up  the  notice  refusing  to  pay.  Perhaps 
not.  It's  a  queer  case — they  usually  set  the  bombs 
off  at  night  when  no  one  is  around.  There  must  be 
43 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

more  back  of  this  than  merely  to  scare  Gennaro. 
It  looks  to  me  as  if  they  were  after  Cesare,  too,  first 
by  poison,  then  by  dynamite." 

We  shouldered  our  way  out  through  the  crowd, 
and  went  on  until  we  came  to  Mulberry  Street, 
pulsing  with  life.  Down  we  went  past  the  little 
shops,  dodging  the  children,  and  making  way  for 
women  with  huge  bundles  of  sweat-shop  clothing 
accurately  balanced  on  their  heads  or  hugged  up 
under  their  capacious  capes.  Here  was  just  one 
little  colony  of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Italians 
— a  population  larger  than  the  Italian  population 
of  Rome — of  whose  life  the  rest  of  New  York  knew 
and  cared  nothing. 

At  last  we  came  to  Albano's  little  wine-shop,  a 
dark,  evil,  malodorous  place  on  the  street  level  of  a 
five-story,  alleged  "new-law"  tenement.  Without 
hesitation  Kennedy  entered,  and  we  followed,  acting 
the  part  of  a  slumming  party.  There  were  a  few 
customers  at  this  early  hour,  men  out  of  employ- 
ment and  an  inoffensive-looking  lot,  though  of  course 
they  eyed  us  sharply.  Albano  himself  proved  to  be 
a  greasy,  low-browed  fellow  who  had  a  sort  of  cun- 
ning look.  I  could  well  imagine  such  a  fellow  spread- 
ing terror  in  the  hearts  of  simple  folk  by  merely 
pressing  both  temples  with  his  thumbs  and  drawing 
his  long  bony  forefinger  under  his  throat — the  so- 
called  Black  Hand  sign  that  has  shut  up  many  a 
witness  in  the  middle  of  his  testimony  even  in  open 
court. 

44 


The  Black  Hand 

We  pushed  through  to  the  low-ceilinged  back 
room,  which  was  empty,  and  sat  down  at  a  table. 
Over  a  bottle  of  Albano's  famous  California  "red 
ink  "  we  sat  silently.  Kennedy  was  making  a  mental 
note  of  the  place.  In  the  middle  of  the  ceiling  was  a 
single  gas-burner  with  a  big  reflector  over  it.  In  the 
back  wall  of  the  room  was  a  horizontal  oblong  win- 
dow, barred,  and  with  a  sash  that  opened  like  a 
transom.  The  tables  were  dirty  and  the  chairs 
rickety.  The  walls  were  bare  and  unfinished,  with 
beams  innocent  of  decoration.  Altogether  it  was 
as  unprepossessing  a  place  as  I  had  ever  seen. 

Apparently  satisfied  with  his  scrutiny,  Kennedy 
got  up  to  go,  complimenting  the  proprietor  on  his 
wine.  I  could  see  that  Kennedy  had  made  up 
his  mind  as  to  his  course  of  action. 

"How  sordid  crime  really  is,"  he  remarked  as  we 
walked  on  down  the  street.  "Look  at  that  place  of 
Albano's.  I  defy  even  the  police  news  reporter  on 
the  Star  to  find  any  glamour  in  that." 

Our  next  stop  was  at  the  corner  at  the  little  store 
kept  by  the  cousin  of  Luigi,  who  conducted  us  back 
of  the  partition  where  prescriptions  were  com- 
pounded, and  found  us  chairs. 

A  hurried  explanation  from  Luigi  brought  a  cloud 
to  the  open  face  of  the  druggist,  as  if  he  hesitated  to 
lay  himself  and  his  little  fortune  open  to  the  black- 
mailers. Kennedy  saw  it  and  interrupted. 

"All  that  I  wish  to  do,"  he  said,  "is  to  put  in  a 
little  instrument  here  and  use  it  to-night  for  a  few 
45 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

minutes.  Indeed,  there  will  be  no  risk  to  you, 
Vincenzo.  Secrecy  is  what  I  desire,  and  no  one  will 
ever  know  about  it." 

Vincenzo  was  at  length  convinced,  and  Craig 
opened  his  suit-case.  There  was  little  in  it  except 
several  coils  of  insulated  wire,  some  tools,  a  couple  of 
packages  wrapped  up,  and  a  couple  of  pairs  of  over- 
alls. In  a  moment  Kennedy  had  donned  overalls 
and  was  smearing  dirt  and  grease  over  his  face  and 
hands.  Under  his  direction  I  did  the  same. 

Taking  the  bag  of  tools,  the  wire,  and  one  of  the 
small  packages,  we  went  out  on  the  street  and  then 
up  through  the  dark  and  ill-ventilated  hall  of  the 
tenement.  Half-way  up  a  woman  stopped  us  sus- 
piciously. 

"Telephone  company,"  said  Craig  curtly. 
"Here's  permission  from  the  owner  of  the  house  to 
string  wires  across  the  roof." 

He  pulled  an  old  letter  out  of  his  pocket,  but  as 
it  was  too  dark  to  read  even  if  the  woman  had  cared 
to  do  so,  we  went  on  up  as  he  had  expected,  un- 
molested. At  last  we  came  to  the  roof,  where  there 
were  some  children  at  play  a  couple  of  houses  down 
from  us. 

Kennedy  began  by  dropping  two  strands  of  wire 
down  to  the  ground  in  the  back  yard  behind  Vin- 
cenzo's  shop.  Then  he  proceeded  to  lay  two  wires 
along  the  edge  of  the  roof. 

We  had  worked  only  a  little  while  when  the 
children  began  to  collect.  However,  Kennedy  kept 
46 


The  Black  Hand 

right  on  until  we  reached  the  tenement  next  to  that 
in  which  Albano's  shop  was. 

"Walter,"  he  whispered,  "just  get  the  children 
away  for  a  minute  now." 

"Look  here,  you  kids, "  I  yelled,  "some  of  you  will 
fall  off  if  you  get  so  close  to  the  edge  of  the  roof. 
Keep  back." 

It  had  no  effect.  Apparently  they  looked  not  a 
bit  frightened  at  the  dizzy  mass  of  clothes-lines 
below  us. 

"Say,  is  there  a  candy  store  on  this  block?"  I 
asked  in  desperation. 

"Yes,  sir,"  came  the  chorus. 

"Who'll  go  down  and  get  me  a  bottle  of  ginger 
ale?"  I  asked. 

A  chorus  of  voices  and  glittering  eyes  was  the 
answer.  They  all  would.  I  took  a  half-dollar  from 
my  pocket  and  gave  it  to  the  oldest. 

"All  right  now,  hustle  along,  and  divide  the 
change." 

With  the  scamper  of  many  feet  they  were  gone, 
and  we  were  alone.  Kennedy  had  now  reached 
Albano's,  and  as  soon  as  the  last  head  had  dis- 
appeared below  the  scuttle  of  the  roof  he  dropped 
two  long  strands  down  into  the  back  yard,  as  he  had 
done  at  Vincenzo's. 

I  started  to  go  back,  but  he  stopped  me.    "Oh, 

that  will  never  do,"  he  said.     "The  kids  will  see 

that  the  wires  end  here.    I  must  carry  them  on 

several  houses  farther  as  a  blind  and   trust  to 

47 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

luck  that  they  don't  see  the  wires  leading  down 
below." 

We  were  several  houses  down,  still  putting  up 
wires  when  the  crowd  came  shouting  back,  sticky 
with  cheap  trust-made  candy  and  black  with  East 
Side  chocolate.  We  opened  the  ginger  ale  and  forced 
ourselves  to  drink  it  so  as  to  excite  no  suspicion, 
then  a  few  minutes  later  descended  the  stairs  of  the 
tenement,  coming  out  just  above  Albano's. 

I  was  wondering  how  Kennedy  was  going  to  get 
into  Albano's  again  without  exciting  suspicion.  He 
solved  it  neatly. 

"Now,  Walter,  do  you  think  you  could  stand 
another  dip  into  that  red  ink  of  Albano's?" 

I  said  I  might  in  the  interests  of  science  and 
justice — not  otherwise. 

"Well,  your  face  is  sufficiently  dirty,"  he  com- 
mented, "so  that  with  the  overalls  you  don't  look 
very  much  as  you  did  the  first  time  you  went  in. 
I  don't  think  they  will  recognize  you.  Do  I  look 
pretty  good?  " 

"You  look  like  a  coal-heaver  on  the  job,"  I  said. 
"I  can  scarcely  restrain  my  admiration." 

"All  right.  Then  take  this  little  glass  bottle. 
Go  into  the  back  room  and  order  something  cheap, 
in  keeping  with  your  looks.  Then  when  you  are  all 
alone  break  the  bottle.  It  is  full  of  gas  drippings. 
Your  nose  will  dictate  what  to  do  next.  Just  tell 
the  proprietor  you  saw  the  gas  company's  wagon  on 
the  next  block  and  come  up  here  and  tell  me." 
48 


The  Black  Hand 

I  entered.  There  was  a  sinister-looking  man, 
with  a  sort  of  unscrupulous  intelligence,  writing  at  a 
table.  As  he  wrote  and  puffed  at  his  cigar,  I  noticed 
a  scar  on  his  face,  a  deep  furrow  running  from  the 
lobe  of  his  ear  to  his  mouth.  That,  I  knew,  was  a 
brand  set  upon  him  by  the  Camorra.  I  sat  and 
smoked  and  sipped  slowly  for  several  minutes, 
cursing  him  inwardly  more  for  his  presence  than  for 
bis  evident  look  of  the  "mala  vita."  At  last  he 
went  out  to  ask  the  barkeeper  for  a  stamp. 

Quickly  I  tiptoed  over  to  another  corner  of  the 
room  and  ground  the  little  bottle  under  my  heel. 
Then  I  resumed  my  seat.  The  odor  that  pervaded 
the  room  was  sickening. 

The  sinister-looking  man  with  the  scar  came  in 
again  and  sniffed.  I  sniffed.  Then  the  proprietor 
came  in  and  sniffed. 

"  Say, "  I  said  in  the  toughest  voice  I  could  assume, 
"you  got  a  leak.  Wait.  I  seen  the  gas  company 
wagon  on  the  next  block  when  I  came  in.  I'll  get 
the  man." 

I  dashed  out  and  hurried  up  the  street  to  the 
place  where  Kennedy  was  waiting  impatiently. 
Rattling  his  tools,  he  followed  me  with  apparent 
reluctance. 

As  he  entered  the  wine-shop  he  snorted,  after  the 
manner  of  gasmen,  "Where's  de  leak?" 

"  You  find-a  da  leak, "  grunted  Albano.  "  What-a 
you  get-a  you  pay  for?  You  want-a  me  do  your 
work?" 

49 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Well,  half  a  dozen  o'  you  wops  get  out  o'  here, 
that's  all.  D'youse  all  wanter  be  blown  ter  pieces 
wid  dem  pipes  and  cigarettes?  Clear  out,"  growled 
Kennedy. 

They  retreated  precipitately,  and  Craig  hastily 
opened  his  bag  of  tools. 

"Quick,  Walter,  shut  the  door  and  hold  it," 
exclaimed  Craig,  working  rapidly.  He  unwrapped 
a  little  package  and  took  out  a  round,  flat  disk-like 
thing  of  black  vulcanized  rubber.  Jumping  up  on  a 
table,  he  fixed  it  to  the  top  of  the  reflector  over 
the  gas-jet. 

"Can  you  see  that  from  the  floor,  Walter?"  he 
asked,  under  his  breath. 

"No,"  I  replied,  "not  even  when  I  know  it  is 
there." 

Then  he  attached  a  couple  of  wires  to  it  and  led 
them  across  the  ceiling  toward  the  window,  con- 
cealing them  carefully  by  sticking  them  in  the 
shadow  of  a  beam.  At  the  window  he  quickly 
attached  the  wires  to  the  two  that  were  dangling 
down  from  the  roof  and  shoved  them  around  out  of 
sight. 

"We'll  have  to  trust  that  no  one  sees  them,"  he 
said.  "That's  the  best  I  can  do  at  such  short  notice. 
I  never  saw  a  room  so  bare  as  this,  anyway.  There 
isn't  another  place  I  could  put  that  thing  without  its 
being  seen." 

We  gathered  up  the  broken  glass  of  the  gas- 
drippings  bottle,  and  I  opened  the  door. 
50 


The  Black  Hand 

"It's  all  right  now,"  said  Craig,  sauntering  out 
before  the  bar.  "Only  de  next  time  you  has 
anyt'ing  de  matter  call  de  company  up.  I  ain't 
supposed  to  do  dis  wit'out  orders,  see?  " 

A  moment  later  I  followed,  glad  to  get  out  of  the 
oppressive  atmosphere,  an€  joined  him  in  the  back 
of  Vincenzo's  drug  store,  where  he  was  again  at  work. 
As  there  was  no  back  window  there,  it  was  quite  a 
job  to  lead  the  wires  around  the  outside  from  the 
back  yard  and  in  at  a  side  window.  It  was  at  last 
done,  however,  without  exciting  suspicion,  and 
Kennedy  attached  them  to  an  oblong  box  of  weath- 
ered oak  and  a  pair  of  specially  constructed  dry 
batteries. 

"Now,"  said  Craig,  as  we  washed  off  the  stains  of 
work  and  stowed  the  overalls  back  in  the  suitcase, 
"  that  is  done  to  my  satisfaction.  I  can  tell  Gennaro 
to  go  ahead  safely  now  and  meet  the  Black  Handers." 

From  Vincenzo's  we  walked  over  toward  Center 
Street,  where  Kennedy  and  I  left  Luigi  to  return  to 
his  restaurant,  with  instructions  to  be  at  Vincenzo's 
at  half-past  eleven  that  night. 

We  turned  into  the  new  police  headquarters  and 
went  down  the  long  corridor  to  the  Italian  Bureau. 
Kennedy  sent  in  his  card  to  Lieutenant  Giuseppe 
in  charge,  and  we  were  quickly  admitted.  The 
lieutenant  was  a  short,  full-faced  fleshy  Italian,  with 
lightish  hair  and  eyes  that  were  apparently  dull, 
until  you  suddenly  discovered  that  that  was  merely 
a  cover  to  their  really  restless  way  of  taking  in  every- 
51 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

thing  and  fixing  it  on  his  mind,  as  if  on  a  sensitive 
plate. 

"I  want  to  talk  about  the  Gennaro  case,"  began 
Craig.  "I  may  add  that  I  have  been  rather  closely 
associated  with  Inspector  O'Connor  of  the  Central 
Office  on  a  number  of  cases,  so  that  I  think  we  can 
trust  each  other.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what 
you  know  about  it  if  I  promise  you  that  I,  too,  have 
something  to  reveal?" 

The  lieutenant  leaned  back  and  watched  Kennedy 
closely  without  seeming  to  do  so.  "When  I  was  in 
Italy  last  year,"  he  replied  at  length,  "I  did  a  good 
deal  of  work  in  tracing  up  some  Camorra  suspects. 
I  had  a  tip  about  some  of  them  to  look  up  their 
records — I  needn't  say  where  it  came  from,  but  it 
was  a  good  one.  Much  of  the  evidence  against 
some  of  those  fellows  who  are  being  tried  at  Viterbo 
was  gathered  by  the  Carabinieri  as  a  result  of  hints 
that  I  was  able  to  give  them — clues  that  were  fur- 
nished to  me  here  in  America  from  the  source  I  speak 
of.  I  suppose  there  is  really  no  need  to  conceal  it, 
though.  The  original  tip  came  from  a  certain 
banker  here  in  New  York." 

"I  can  guess  who  it  was,"  nodded  Craig. 

"Then,  as  you  know,  this  banker  is  a  fighter. 
He  is  the  man  who  organized  the  White  Hand — an 
organization  which  is  trying  to  rid  the  Italian  popu- 
lation of  the  Black  Hand.  His  society  had  a  lot  of 
evidence  regarding  former  members  of  both  the 
Camorra  in  Naples  and  the  Mafia  in  Sicily,  as  well 
52 


The  Black  Hand 

as  the  Black  Hand  gangs  in  New  York,  Chicago, 
and  other  cities.  Well,  Cesare,  as  you  know,  is 
Gennaro's  father-in-law. 

"While  I  was  in  Naples  looking  up  the  record  of  a 
certain  criminal  I  heard  of  a  peculiar  murder  com- 
mitted some  years  ago.  There  was  an  honest  old 
music  master  who  apparently  lived  the  quietest  and 
most  harmless  of  lives.  But  it  became  known  that 
he  was  supported  by  Cesare  and  had  received  hand- 
some presents  of  money  from  him.  The  old  man 
was,  as  you  may  have  guessed,  the  first  music 
teacher  of  Gennaro,  the  man  who  discovered  him. 
One  might  have  been  at  a  loss  to  see  how  he  could 
have  an  enemy,  but  there  was  one  who  coveted  his 
small  fortune.  One  day  he  was  stabbed  and  robbed. 
His  murderer  ran  out  into  the  street,  crying  out  that 
the  poor  man  had  been  killed.  Naturally  a  crowd 
rushed  up  in  a  moment,  for  it  was  in  the  middle  of 
the  day.  Before  the  injured  man  could  make  it 
understood  who  had  struck  him  the  assassin  was 
down  the  street  and  lost  in  the  maze  of  old  Naples 
where  he  well  knew  the  houses  of  his  friends  who 
would  hide  him.  The  man  who  is  known  to  have 
committed  that  crime — Francesco  Paoli — escaped  to 
New  York.  We  are  looking  for  him  to-day.  He 
is  a  clever  man,  far  above  the  average — son  of  a 
doctor  in  a  town  a  few  miles  from  Naples,  went  to 
the  university,  was  expelled  for  some  mad  prank — 
in  short,  he  was  the  black  sheep  of  the  family.  Of 
course  over  here  he  is  too  high-born  to  work  with  his 
53 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

hands  on  a  railroad  or  in  a  trench,  and  not  educated 
enough  to  work  at  anything  else.  So  he  has  been 
preying  on  his  more  industrious  countrymen — a 
typical  case  of  a  man  living  by  his  wits  with  no 
visible  means  of  support. 

"Now  I  don't  mind  telling  you  in  strict  con- 
fidence," continued  the  lieutenant,  "that  it's  my 
theory  that  old  Cesare  had  seen  Paoli  here,  knew  he 
was  wanted  for  that  murder  of  the  old  music  master, 
and  gave  me  the  tip  to  look  up  his  record.  At  any 
rate,  Paoli  disappeared  right  after  I  returned  from 
Italy,  and  we  haven't  been  able  to  locate  him  since. 
He  must  have  found  out  in  some  way  that  the  tip 
to  look  him  up  had  been  given  by  the  White  Hand. 
He  had  been  a  Camorrista,  in  Italy,  and  had  many 
ways  of  getting  information  here  in  America." 

He  paused,  and  balanced  a  piece  of  cardboard  in 
his  hand. 

"It  is  my  theory  of  this  case  that  if  we  could  locate 
this  Paoli  we  could  solve  the  kidnapping  of  little 
Adelina  Gennaro  very  quickly.  That's  his  picture." 

Kennedy  and  I  bent  over  to  look  at  it,  and  I 
started  in  surprise.  It  was  my  evil-looking  friend 
with  the  scar  on  his  cheek. 

"Well,"  said  Craig,  quietly  handing  back  the 
card,  "whether  or  not  he  is  the  man,  I  know  where 
we  can  catch  the  kidnappers  to-night,  Lieutenant." 

It  was  Giuseppe's  turn  to  show  surprise  now. 

"With  your  assistance  I'll  get  this  man  and  the 
whole  gang  to-night,"  explained  Craig,  rapidly 
54 


The  Black  Hand 

sketching  over  his  plan  and  concealing  just  enough 
to  make  sure  that  no  matter  how  anxious  the  lieu- 
tenant was  to  get  the  credit  he  could  not  spoil  the 
affair  by  premature  interference. 

The  final  arrangement  was  that  four  of  the  best 
men  of  the  squad  were  to  hide  in  a  vacant  store 
across  from  Vincenzo's  early  in  the  evening,  long 
before  anyone  was  watching.  The  signal  for  them 
to  appear  was  to  be  the  extinguishing  of  the  lights 
behind  the  coloured  bottles  in  the  druggist's  window. 
A  taxicab  was  to  be  kept  waiting  at  headquarters  at 
the  same  tune  with  three  other  good  men  ready  to 
start  for  a  given  address  the  moment  the  alarm  was 
given  over  the  telephone. 

We  found  Gennaro  awaiting  us  with  the  greatest 
anxiety  at  the  opera  house.  The  bomb  at  Cesare's 
had  been  the  last  straw.  Gennaro  had  already 
drawn  from  his  bank  ten  crisp  one-thousand-dollar 
bills,  and  already  he  had  a  copy  of  II  Progresso  in 
which  he  had  hidden  the  money  between  the  sheets. 

"Mr.  Kennedy,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  meet 
them  to-night.  They  may  kill  me.  See,  I  have 
provided  myself  with  a  pistol — I  shall  fight,  too,  if 
necessary  for  my  little  Adelina.  But  if  it  is  only 
money  they  want,  they  shall  have  it." 

"One  thing  I  want  to  say,"  began  Kennedy. 

"No,  no,  no!"  cried  the  tenor.  "I  will  go — you 
shall  not  stop  me." 

"I  don't  wish  to  stop  you,"  Craig  reassured 
him.  "But  one  thing — do  exactly  as  I  tell  you, 
55 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

and  I  swear  not  a  hair  of  the  child's  head  will  be 
injured  and  we  will  get  the  blackmailers,  too." 

"How?"  eagerly  asked  Gennaro.  "What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?" 

"All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  go  to  Albano's  at  the 
appointed  time.  Sit  down  in  the  back  room.  Get 
into  conversation  with  them,  and,  above  all,  Signor, 
as  soon  as  you  get  the  copy  of  the  Bolletino  turn  to 
the  third  page,  pretend  not  to  be  able  to  read  the 
address.  Ask  the  man  to  read  it.  Then  repeat  it 
after  him.  Pretend  to  be  overjoyed.  Offer  to  set  up 
wine  for  the  whole  crowd.  Just  a  few  minutes,  that 
is  all  I  ask,  and  I  will  guarantee  that  you  will  be  the 
happiest  man  in  New  York  to-morrow." 

Gennaro's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  grasped 
Kennedy's  hand.  "That  is  better  than  having  the 
whole  police  force  back  of  me,"  he  said.  "I  shall 
never  forget,  never  forget." 

As  we  went  out  Kennedy  remarked:  "You  can't 
blame  them  for  keeping  their  troubles  to  themselves. 
Here  we  send  a  police  officer  over  to  Italy  to  look  up 
the  records  of  some  of  the  worst  suspects.  He  loses 
his  life.  Another  takes  his  place.  Then  after  he 
gets  back  he  is  set  to  work  on  the  mere  clerical 
routine  of  translating  them.  One  of  his  associates 
is  reduced  in  rank.  And  so  what  does  it  all  come 
to?  Hundreds  of  records  have  become  useless 
because  the  three  years  within  which  the  criminals 
could  be  deported  have  elapsed  with  nothing  done. 
Intelligent,  isn't  it?  I  believe  it  has  been  established 
56 


The  Black  Hand 

that  all  but  about  fifty  of  seven  hundred  known 
Jtalian  suspects  are  still  at  large,  mostly  in  this  city. 
And  the  rest  of  the  Italian  population  is  guarded 
from  them  by  a  squad  of  police  in  number  scarcely 
one-thirtieth  of  the  number  of  known-  criminals. 
No,  it's  our  fault  if  the  Black  Hand  thrives." 

We  had  been  standing  on  the  corner  of  Broadway, 
waiting  for  a  car. 

"Now,  Walter,  don't  forget.  Meet  me  at  the 
Bleecker  Street  station  of  the  subway  at  eleven 
thirty.  I'm  off  to  the  university.  I  have  some 
very  important  experiments  with  phosphorescent 
salts  that  I  want  to  finish  to-day." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  the  case?"  I  asked 
mystified. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Craig.  "I  didn't  say  it  had. 
At  eleven  thirty,  don't  forget.  By  George,  though, 
that  Paoli  must  be  a  clever  one — think  of  his  know- 
ing about  ricinus.  I  only  heard  of  it  myself  recently. 
Well,  here's  my  car.  Good-bye." 

Craig  swung  aboard  an  Amsterdam  Avenue  car, 
leaving  me  to  kill  eight  nervous  hours  of  my  weekly 
day  of  rest  from  the  Star. 

They  passed  at  length,  and  at  precisely  the  ap- 
pointed time  Kennedy  and  I  met.  With  suppressed 
excitement,  at  least  on  my  part,  we  walked  over  to 
Vincenzo's.  At  night  this  section  of  the  city  was 
indeed  a  black  enigma.  The  lights  in  the  shops 
where  olive  oil,  fruit,  and  other  things  were  sold, 
were  winking  out  one  by  one;  here  and  there  strains 
57 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

of  music  floated  out  of  wine-shops,  and  little  groups 
lingered  on  corners  conversing  in  animated  sentences. 
We  passed  Albano's  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
being  careful  not  to  look  at  it  too  closely,  for  several 
men  were  hanging  idly  about — pickets,  apparently, 
with  some  secret  code  that  would  instantly  have 
spread  far  and  wide  the  news  of  any  alarming  action. 

At  the  corner  we  crossed  and  looked  hi  Vincenzo's 
window  a  moment,  casting  a  furtive  glance  across 
the  street  at  the  dark  empty  store  where  the  police 
must  be  hiding.  Then  we  went  in  and  casually 
sauntered  back  of  the  partition.  Luigi  was  there 
already.  There  were  several  customers  still  in  the 
store,  however,  and  therefore  we  had  to  sit  in  silence 
while  Vincenzo  quickly  finished  a  prescription  and 
waited  on  the  last  one. 

At  last  the  doors  were  locked  and  the  lights 
lowered,  all  except  those  in  the  windows  which  were 
to  serve  as  signals. 

"Ten  minutes  to  twelve,"  said  Kennedy,  placing 
the  oblong  box  on  the  table.  "Gennaro  will  be 
going  in  soon.  Let  us  try  this  machine  now  and  see 
if  it  works.  If  the  wires  have  been  cut  since  we  put 
them  up  this  morning  Gennaro  will  have  to  take  his 
chances  alone." 

Kennedy  reached  over  and  with  a  light  movement 
of  his  forefinger  touched  a  switch. 
I  Instantly  a  babel  of  voices  filled  the  store,  all 
talking  at  once,  rapidly  and  loudly.  Here  and 
there  we  could  distinguish  a  snatch  of  conversation, 
58 


The  Black  Hand 

a  word,  a  phrase,  now  and  then  even  a  whole  sentence 
above  the  rest.  There  was  the  clink  of  glasses.  I 
could  hear  the  rattle  of  dice  on  a  bare  table,  and  an 
oath.  A  cork  popped.  Somebody  scratched  a 
match. 

We  sat  bewildered,  looking  at  Kennedy. 

"Imagine  that  you  are  sitting  at  a  table  In  Al- 
bano's  back  room,"  was  all  he  said.  "This  is  what 
you  would  be  hearing.  This  is  my  'electric  ear' — 
in  other  words  the  dictagraph,  used,  I  am  told,  by 
the  Secret  Service  of  the  United  States.  Wait,  in  a 
moment  you  will  hear  Gennaro  come  in.  Luigi 
and  Vincenzo,  translate  what  you  hear.  My  knowl- 
edge of  Italian  is  pretty  rusty." 

"  Can  they  hear  us?  "  whispered  Luigi  in  an  awe- 
struck whisper. 

Craig  laughed.  "No,  not  yet.  But  I  have  only 
to  touch  this  other  switch,  and  I  could  produce  an 
effect  in  that  room  that  would  rival  the  famous 
writing  on  Belshazzar's  wall — only  it  would  be  a 
voice  from  the  wall  instead  of  writing." 

"They  seem  to  be  waiting  for  someone,"  said 
Vincenzo.  "I  heard  somebody  say:  'He  will  be 
here  in  a  few  minutes.  Now  get  out.' " 

The  babel  of  voices  seemed  to  calm  down  as 
men  withdrew  from  the  room.  Only  one  or  two 
were  left. 

"One  of  them  says  the  child  is  all  right.  She  has 
been  left  in  the  back  yard,"  translated  Luigi. 

"What  yard?    Did  he  say?"  asked  Kennedy. 
59 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"No,  they  just  speak  of  it  as  the  'yard.' " 

"Jameson,  go  outside  in  the  store  to  the  telephone 
booth  and  call  up  headquarters.  Ask  them  if  the 
automobile  is  ready,  with  the  men  in  it." 

I  rang  up,  and  after  a  moment  the  police  central 
answered  that  everything  was  right. 

"Then  tell  central  to  hold  the  line  clear — we 
mustn't  lose  a  moment.  Jameson,  you  stay  in  the 
booth.  Vincenzo,  you  pretend  to  be  working 
around  your  window,  but  not  in  such  a  way  as  to 
attract  attention,  for  they  have  men  watching  the 
street  very  carefully.  What  is  it,  Luigi?" 

"Gennaro  is  coming.  I  just  heard  one  of  them 
say,  'Here  he  comes.' " 

Even  from  the  booth  I  could  hear  the  dictagraph 
repeating  the  conversation  in  the  dingy  little  back 
room  of  Albano's,  down  the  street. 

"He's  ordering  a  bottle  of  red  wine,"  murmured 
Luigi,  dancing  up  and  down  with  excitement. 

Vincenzo  was  so  nervous  that  he  knocked  a  bottle 
down  in  the  window,  and  I  believe  that  my  heart- 
beats were  almost  audible  over  the  telephone  which 
I  was  holding,  for  the  police  operator  called  me  down 
for  asking  so  many  tunes  if  all  was  ready. 

"There  it  is — the  signal,"  cried  Craig.  "'A  fine 
opera  is  "  I  Pagliacci." '  Now  listen  for  the  answer." 

A  moment  elapsed,  then,  "  Not  without  Gennaro, " 
came  a  gruff  voice  in  Italian  from  the  dictagraph. 

A  silence  ensued.    It  was  tense. 

"Wait,  wait,"  said  a  voice  which  I  recognized 
60 


The  Black  Hand 

instantly    as    Gennaro's.    "I    cannot    read    this. 
What  is  this,  23^  Prince  Street?" 

"No,  33^2.    She  has  been  left  in  the  back  yard." 

"Jameson,"  called  Craig,  "tell  them  to  drive 
straight  to  33^  Prince  Street.  They  will  find  the 
girl  in  the  back  yard — quick,  before  the  Black- 
Handers  have  a  chance  to  go  back  on  their  word." 

I  fairly  shouted  my  orders  to  the  police  head- 
quarters. "They're  off,"  came  back  the  answer, 
and  I  hung  up  the  receiver. 

"What  was  that?"  Craig  was  asking  of  Luigi. 
"I  didn't  catch  it.  What  did  they  say? " 

"That  other  voice  said  to  Gennaro,  'Sit  down 
while  I  count  this.' " 

"Sh!  he's  talking  again." 

"If  it  is  a  penny  less  than  ten  thousand  or  I  find 
a  mark  on  the  bills  I'll  call  to  Enrico,  and  your 
daughter  will  be  spirited  away  again,"  translated 
Luigi. 

"Now,  Gennaro  is  talking,"  said  Craig.  "Good 
— he  is  gaining  time.  He  is  a  trump.  I  can  dis- 
tinguish that  all  right.  He's  asking  the  gruff- 
voiced  fellow  if  he  will  have  another  bottle  of  wine. 
He  says  he  will.  Good.  They  must  be  at  Prince 
Street  now — we'll  give  them  a  few  minutes  more, 
not  too  much,  for  word  will  be  back  to  Albano's  like 
wildfire,  and  they  will  get  Gennaro  after  all.  Ah, 
they  are  drinking  again.  What  was  that,  Luigi? 
The  money  is  all  right,  he  says?  Now,  Vincenzo, 
out  with  the  lights!" 

61 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

A  door  banged  open  across  the  street,  and  four 
huge  dark  figures  darted  out  in  the  direction  of 
Albano's. 

With  his  finger  Kennedy  pulled  down  the  other 
switch  and  shouted:  "Gennaro,  this  is  Kennedy! 
To  the  street!  Polizia!  Polizial  " 

A  scuffle  and  a  cry  of  surprise  followed.  A  second 
voice,  apparently  from  the  bar,  shouted,  "Out  with 
the  lights,  out  with  the  lights!" 

Bang!  went  a  pistol,  and  another. 

The  dictagraph,  which  had  been  all  sound  a 
moment  before,  was  as  mute  as  a  cigar-box. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked  Kennedy,  as  he 
rushed  past  me. 

"They  have  shot  out  the  lights.  My  receiving 
instrument  is  destroyed.  Come  on,  Jameson;  Vin- 
cenzo,  stay  back  if  you  don't  want  to  appear  in  this." 

A  short  figure  rushed  by  me,  faster  even  than  I 
could  go.  It  was  the  faithful  Luigi. 

In  front  of  Albano's  an  exciting  fight  was  going 
on.  Shots  were  being  fired  wildly  in  the  darkness, 
and  heads  were  popping  out  of  tenement  windows 
on  all  sides.  As  Kennedy  and  I  flung  ourselves  into 
the  crowd  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  Gennaro,  with 
blood  streaming  from  a  cut  on  his  shoulder,  strug- 
gling with  a  policeman  while  Luigi  vainly  was  trying 
to  interpose  himself  between  them.  A  man,  held 
by  another  policeman,  was  urging  the  first  officer  on. 
"That's  the  man,"  he  was  crying.  "That's  the 
kidnapper.  I  caught  him." 
62 


The  Black  Hand 

In  a  moment  Kennedy  was  behind  him.  "Paoli, 
you  lie.  You  are  the  kidnapper.  Seize  him — he 
has  the  money  on  him.  That  other  is  Gennaro 
himself." 

The  policeman  released  the  tenor,  and  both  of 
them  seized  Paoli.  The  others  were  beating  at  the 
door,  which  was  being  frantically  barricaded  inside. 

Just  then  a  taxicab  came  swinging  up  the  street. 
Three  men  jumped  out  and  added  their  strength  to 
those  who  were  battering  down  Albano's  barricade. 

Gennaro,  with  a  cry,  leaped  into  the  taxicab. 
Over  his  shoulder  I  could  see  a  tangled  mass  of  dark 
brown  curls,  and  a  childish  voice  lisped:  "Why 
didn't  you  come  for  me,  papa?  The  bad  man  told 
me  if  I  waited  in  the  yard  you  would  come  for  me. 
But  if  I  cried  he  said  he  would  shoot  me.  And  I 
waited,  and  waited — " 

"There,  there,  'Lina,  papa's  going  to  take  you 
straight  home  to  mother." 

A  crash  followed  as  the  door  yielded,  and  the 
famous  Paoli  gang  was  in  the  hands  of  the  law. 


63 


m 

THE  BITER  BIT 

WILKIE  COLLINS 

Extracted  from  the  Correspondence  of  the    London 
Police. 

FROM  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE,  OF  THE 

DETECTIVE  POLICE,  TO   SERGEANT  BULMER, 

OF  THE   SAME  FORCE. 

London,  4th  July,  18 — .  . 

SERGEANT  BULMER,— This  is  to  inform  you 
that  you  are  wanted  to  assist  in  looking  up  a 
case  of  importance,  which  will  require  all  the 
attention  of  an  experienced  member  of  the  force. 
The  matter  of  the  robbery  on  which  you  are  now 
engaged  you  will  please  to  shift  over  to  the  young 
man  who  brings  you  this  letter.    You  will  tell  him 
all  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  just  as  they  stand; 
you  will  put  him  up  to  the  progress  you  have  made 
(if  any)  toward  detecting  the  person  or  persons  by 
whom  the  money  has  been  stolen;  and  you  will  leave 
him  to  make  the  best  he  can  of  the  matter  now  in 
your  hands.    He  is  to  have  the  whole  responsibility 
64 


The  Biter  Bit 

of  the  case,  and  the  whole  credit  of  his  success  if  he 
brings  it  to  a  proper  issue. 

So  much  for  the  orders  that  I  am  desired  to  com- 
municate to  you. 

A  word  in  your  ear,  next,  about  this  new  man  who 
is  to  take  your  place.  His  name  is  Matthew  Shar- 
pin,  and  he  is  to  have  the  chance  given  him  of  dashing 
into  our  office  at  one  jump — supposing  he  turns  out 
strong  enough  to  take  it.  You  will  naturally  ask  me 
how  he  comes  by  this  privilege.  I  can  only  tell  you 
that  he  has  some  uncommonly  strong  interest  to 
back  him  in  certain  high  quarters,  which  you  and 
I  had  better  not  mention  except  under  our  breaths. 
He  has  been  a  lawyer's  clerk,  and  he  is  wonderfully 
conceited  in  his  opinion  of  himself,  as  well  as  mean 
and  underhand  to  look  at.  According  to  his  own 
account,  he  leaves  his  old  trade  and  joins  ours  of 
his  own  free  will  and  preference.  You  will  no  more 
believe  that  than  I  do.  My  notion  is,  that  he  has 
managed  to  ferret  out  some  private  information  in 
connection  with  the  affairs  of  one  of  his  master's 
clients,  which  makes  him  rather  an  awkward  cus- 
tomer to  keep  in  the  office  for  the  future,  and  which, 
at  the  same  time,  gives  him  hold  enough  over  his 
employer  to  make  it  dangerous  to  drive  him  into  a 
corner  by  turning  him  away.  I  think  the  giving 
him  this  unheard-of  chance  among  us  is,  in  plain 
words,  pretty  much  like  giving  him  hush-money  to 
keep  him  quiet.  However  that  may  be,  Mr.  Mat- 
thew Sharpin  is  to  have  the  case  now  in  your  hands, 
65 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

and  if  he  succeeds  with  it  he  pokes  his  ugly  nose  into 
our  office  as  sure  as  fate.  I  put  you  up  to  this, 
sergeant,  so  that  you  may  not  stand  in  your  own 
light  by  giving  the  new  man  any  cause  to  complain 
of  you  at  headquarters,  and  remain  yours, 

FRANCIS  THEAKSTONE. 

FROM  MR.  MATTHEW  SHARPIN  TO  CHIEF  INSPECTOR 
THEAKSTONE. 

London,  $th  July,  18 — .    ' 

DEAR  SIR, — Having  now  been  favoured  with  the 
necessary  instructions  from  Sergeant  Buhner,  I  beg 
to  remind  you  of  certain  directions  which  I  have 
received  relating  to  the  report  of  my  future  pro- 
ceedings which  I  am  to  prepare  for  examination  at 
headquarters. 

The  object  of  my  writing,  and  of  your  examining 
what  I  have  written  before  you  send  it  to  the  higher 
authorities,  is,  I  am  informed,  to  give  me,  as  an 
untried  hand,  the  benefit  of  your  advice  in  case  I 
want  it  (which  I  venture  to  think  I  shall  not)  at  any 
stage  of  my  proceedings.  As  the  extraordinary 
circumstances  of  the  case  on  which  I  am  now  en- 
gaged make  it  impossible  for  me  to  absent  myself 
from  the  place  where  the  robbery  was  committed 
until  I  have  made  some  progress  toward  discovering 
the  thief,  I  am  necessarily  precluded  from  consulting 
you  personally.  Hence  the  necessity  of  my  writing 
down  the  various  details,  which  might,  perhaps,  be 
66 


The  Biter  Bit 

better  communicated  by  word  of  mouth.  This,  if 
I  am  not  mistaken,  is  the  position  in  which  we  are 
now  placed.  I  state  my  own  impressions  on  the 
subject  in  writing,  in  order  that  we  may  clearly 
understand  each  other  at  the  outset;  and  have  the 
honour  to  remain  your  obedient  servant, 

MATTHEW  SHARPEST. 

FROM  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE  TO  MR. 
MATTHEW  SHARPEST. 

London,  5th  July,  18 — . 

SIR, — You  have  begun  by  wasting  time,  ink,  and 
paper.  We  both  of  us  perfectly  well  knew  the  posi- 
tion we  stood  in  toward  each  other  when  I  sent  you 
with  my  letter  to  Sergeant  Buhner.  There  was  not 
the  least  need  to  repeat  it  in  writing.  Be  so  good  as 
to  employ  your  pen  in  future  on  the  business  act- 
ually in  hand. 

You  have  now  three  separate  matters  on  which  to 
write  me.  First,  you  have  to  draw  up  a  statement  of 
your  instructions  received  from  Sergeant  Buhner,  in 
order  to  show  us  that  nothing  has  escaped  your 
memory,  and  that  you  are  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case  which  has  been 
intrusted  to  you.  Secondly,  you  are  to  inform  me 
what  it  is  you  propose  to  do.  Thirdly,  you  are  to 
report  every  inch  of  your  progress  (if  you  make  any) 
from  day  to  day,  and,  if  need  be,  from  hour  to  hour 
as  well.  This  is  your  duty.  As  to  what  my  duty 
67 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

may  be,  when  I  want  you  to  remind  me  of  it,  I  will 
write  and  tell  you  so.  In  the  mean  time,  I  remain 
yours, 

FRANCIS  THEAKSTONE. 

FROM  MR.  MATTHEW  SHARPEST  TO  CHIEF  INSPECTOR 
THEAKSTONE. 

London,  6th  July,  18 — . 

SIR, — You  are  rather  an  elderly  person,  and,  as 
such,  naturally  inclined  to  be  a  little  jealous  of  men 
like  me,  who  are  in  the  prime  of  their  lives  and  their 
faculties.  Under  these  circumstances,  it  is  my  duty 
to  be  considerate  toward  you,  and  not  to  bear  too 
hardly  on  your  small  failings.  I  decline,  therefore, 
altogether  to  take  offense  at  the  tone  of  your  letter;  I 
give  you  the  full  benefit  of  the  natural  generosity  of 
my  nature;  I  sponge  the  very  existence  of  your  surly 
communication  out  of  my  memory — in  short,  Chief 
Inspector  Theakstone,  I  forgive  you,  and  proceed  to 
business. 

My  first  duty  is  to  draw  up  a  full  statement  of  the 
instructions  I  have  received  from  Sergeant  Buhner. 
Here  they  are  at  your  service,  according  to  my 
version  of  them. 

At  number  Thirteen  Rutherford  Street,  Soho, 
there  is  a  stationer's  shop.  It  is  kept  by  one  Mr. 
Yatman.  He  is  a  married  man,  but  has  no  family. 
Besides  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman,  the  other  inmates 
in  the  house  are  a  lodger,  a  young  single  man  named 
68 


The  Biter  Bit 

Jay,  who  occupies  the  front  room  on  the  second 
floor — a  shopman,  who  sleeps  in  one  of  the  attics, 
and  a  servant-of-all-work,  whose  bed  is  in  the  back 
kitchen.  Once  a  week  a  charwoman  comes  to  help 
this  servant.  These  are  all  the  persons  who,  on 
ordinary  occasions,  have  means  of  access  to  the 
interior  of  the  house,  placed,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
at  their  disposal. 

Mr.  Yatman  has  been  in  business  for  many  years, 
carrying  on  his  affairs  prosperously  enough  to  realize 
a  handsome  independence  for  a  person  in  his  posi- 
tion. Unfortunately  for  himself,  he  endeavoured  to 
increase  the  amount  of  his  property  by  speculating. 

He  ventured  boldly  in  his  investments;  luck  went 
against  him;  and  rather  less  than  two  years  ago  he 
found  himself  a  poor  man  again.  All  that  was 
saved  out  of  the  wreck  of  his  property  was  the  sum 
of  two  hundred  pounds. 

Although  Mr.  Yatman  did  his  best  to  meet  his 
altered  circumstances,  by  giving  up  many  of  the 
luxuries  and  comforts  to  which  he  and  his  wife  had 
been  accustomed,  he  found  it  impossible  to  retrench 
so  far  as  to  allow  of  putting  by  any  money  from  the 
income  produced  by  his  shop.  The  business  has 
been  declining  of  late  years,  the  cheap  advertising 
stationers  having  done  it  injury  with  the  public. 
Consequently,  up  to  the  last  week,  the  only  surplus 
property  possessed  by  Mr.  Yatman  consisted  of 
the  two  hundred  pounds  which  had  been  recovered 
from  the  wreck  of  his  fortune.  This  sum  was 
69 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

placed  as  a  deposit  in  a  joint-stock  bank  of  the 
highest  possible  character. 

Eight  days  ago  Mr.  Yatman  and  his  lodger,  Mr. 
Jay,  held  a  conversation  on  the  subject  of  the  com- 
mercial difficulties  which  are  hampering  trade  in  all 
directions  at  the  present  time.  Mr.  Jay  (who  lives 
by  supplying  the  newspapers  with  short  paragraphs 
relating  to  accidents,  offenses,  and  brief  records  of 
remarkable  occurrences  in  general — who  is,  in  short, 
what  they  call  a  penny-a-liner)  told  his  landlord 
that  he  had  been  in  the  city  that  day  and  heard 
unfavourable  rumours  on  the  subject  of  the  joint- 
stock  banks.  The  rumours  to  which  he  alluded  had 
already  reached  the  ears  of  Mr.  Yatman  from  other 
quarters,  and  the  confirmation  of  them  by  his  lodger 
had  such  an  effect  on  his  mind — predisposed  as  it 
was  to  alarm  by  the  experience  of  his  former  losses — 
that  he  resolved  to  go  at  once  to  the  bank  and  with- 
draw his  deposit.  It  was  then  getting  on  toward  the 
end  of  the  afternoon,  and  he  arrived  just  in  time  to 
receive  his  money  before  the  bank  closed. 

He  received  the  deposit  in  bank-notes  of  the 
following  amounts:  one  fifty-pound  note,  three 
twenty-pound  notes,  six  ten-pound  notes,  and  six 
five-pound  notes.  His  object  in  drawing  the  money 
in  this  form  was  to  have  it  ready  to  lay  out  immedi- 
ately in  trifling  loans,  on  good  security,  among  the 
small  tradespeople  of  his  district,  some  of  whom  are 
sorely  pressed  for  the  very  means  of  existence  at  the 
present  time.  Investments  of  this  kind  seemed  to 
70 


The  Biter  Bit 

Mr.  Yatman  to  be  the  most  safe  and  the  most 
profitable  on  which  he  could  now  venture. 

He  brought  the  money  back  in  an  envelope  placed 
in  his  breast  pocket,  and  asked  his  shopman,  on 
getting  home,  to  look  for  a  small,  flat,  tin  cash-box, 
which  had  not  been  used  for  years,  and  which,  as 
Mr.  Yatman  remembered  it,  was  exactly  of  the  right 
size  to  hold  the  bank-notes.  For  some  time  the  cash- 
box  was  searched  for  in  vain.  Mr.  Yatman  called 
to  his  wife  to  know  if  she  had  any  idea  where  it  was. 
The  question  was  overheard  by  the  servant-of-all- 
work,  who  was  taking  up  the  tea-tray  at  the  time, 
and  by  Mr.  Jay,  who  was  coming  downstairs  on 
his  way  out  to  the  theatre.  Ultimately  the  cash- 
box  was  found  by  the  shopman.  Mr.  Yatman 
placed  the  bank-notes  in  it,  secured  them  by  a  pad- 
lock, and  put  the  box  in  his  coat  pocket.  It  stuck 
out  of  the  coat  pocket  a  very  little,  but  enough  to  be 
seen.  Mr.  Yatman  remained  at  home,  upstairs, 
all  that  evening.  No  visitors  called.  At  eleven 
o'clock  he  went  to  bed,  and  put  the  cash-box  under 
his  pillow. 

When  he  and  his  wife  woke  the  next  morning  the 
box  was  gone.  Payment  of  the  notes  was  immedi- 
ately stopped  at  the  Bank  of  England,  but  no  news 
of  the  money  has  been  heard  of  since  that  time. 

So  far  the  circumstances  of  the  case  are  perfectly 

clear.    They  point  unmistakably  to  the  conclusion 

that  the  robbery  must  have  been  committed  by 

some  person  living  in  the  house.    Suspicion  falls, 

71 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

therefore,  upon  the  servant-of-all-work,  upon  the 
shopman,  and  upon  Mr.  Jay.  The  two  first  knew 
that  the  cash-box  was  being  inquired  for  by  their 
master,  but  did  not  know  what  it  was  he  wanted  to 
put  into  it.  They  would  assume,  of  course,  that  it 
was  money.  They  both  had  opportunities  (the 
servant  when  she  took  away  the  tea,  and  the  shop- 
man when  he  came,  after  shutting  up,  to  give  the 
keys  of  the  till  to  his  master)  of  seeing  the  cash- 
box  in  Mr.  Yatman's  pocket,  and  of  inferring  nat- 
urally, from  its  position  there,  that  he  intended  to 
take  it  into  his  bedroom  with  him  at  night. 

Mr.  Jay,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been  told,  during 
the  afternoon's  conversation  on  the  subject  of  joint- 
stock  banks,  that  his  landlord  had  a  deposit  of  two 
hundred  pounds  in  one  of  them.  He  also  knew  that 
Mr.  Yatman  left  him  with  the  intention  of  drawing 
that  money  out;  and  he  heard  the  inquiry  for  the 
cash-box  afterward,  when  he  was  coming  down- 
stairs. He  must,  therefore,  have  inferred  that  the 
money  was  in  the  house,  and  that  the  cash-box  was 
the  receptacle  intended  to  contain  it.  That  he  could 
have  had  any  idea,  however,  of  the  place  in  which 
Mr.  Yatman  intended  to  keep  it  for  the  night  is 
impossible,  seeing  that  he  went  out  before  the  box 
was  found,  and  did  not  return  till  his  landlord  was  in 
bed.  Consequently,  if  he  committed  the  robbery, 
he  must  have  gone  into  the  bedroom  purely  on 
speculation. 

Speaking  of  the  bedroom  reminds  me  of  the 
72 


Hie  Biter  Bit 

necessity  of  noticing  the  situation  of  it  in  the  house, 
and  the  means  that  exist  of  gaining  easy  access  to  it 
at  any  hour  of  the  night. 

The  room  in  question  is  the  back  room  on  the 
first  floor.  In  consequence  of  Mrs.  Yatman's  con- 
stitutional nervousness  on  the  subject  of  fire,  which 
makes  her  apprehend  being  burned  alive  in  her 
room,  in  case  of  accident,  by  the  hampering  of  the 
lock  if  the  key  is  turned  in  it,  her  husband  has  never 
been  accustomed  to  lock  the  bedroom  door.  Both 
he  and  his  wife  are,  by  their  own  admission,  heavy 
sleepers;  consequently,  the  risk  to  be  run  by  any 
evil-disposed  persons  wishing  to  plunder  the  bed- 
room was  of  the  most  trifling  kind.  They  could 
enter  the  room  by  merely  turning  the  handle  of  the 
door;  and,  if  they  moved  with  ordinary  caution, 
there  was  no  fear  of  their  waking  the  sleepers  inside. 
This  fact  is  of  importance.  It  strengthens  our  con- 
viction that  the  money  must  have  been  taken  by 
one  of  the  inmates  of  the  house,  because  it  tends  to 
show  that  the  robbery,  in  this  case,  might  have  been 
committed  by  persons  not  possessed  of  the  superior 
vigilance  and  cunning  of  the  experienced  thief. 

Such  are  the  circumstances,  as  they  were  related 
to  Sergeant  Buhner  when  he  was  first  called  in  to 
discover  the  guilty  parties,  and,  if  possible,  to  recover 
the  lost  bank-notes.  The  strictest  inquiry  which  he 
could  institute  failed  of  producing  the  smallest 
fragment  of  evidence  against  any  of  the  persons  on 
whom  suspicion  naturally  fell.  Their  language  and 
73 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

behaviour  on  being  informed  of  the  robbery  was 
perfectly  consistent  with  the  language  and  behaviour 
of  innocent  people.  Sergeant  Bulmer  felt  from  the 
first  that  this  was  a  case  for  private  inquiry  and 
secret  observation.  He  began  by  recommending 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman  to  affect  a  feeling  of  perfect 
confidence  in  the  innocence  of  the  persons  living 
under  their  roof,  and  he  then  opened  the  campaign 
by  employing  himself  in  following  the  goings  and 
comings,  and  in  discovering  the  friends,  the  habits, 
and  the  secrets  of  the  maid-of-all-work. 

Three  days  and  nights  of  exertion  on  his  own 
part,  and  on  that  of  others  who  were  competent  to 
assist  his  investigations,  were  enough  to  satisfy  him 
that  there  was  no  sound  cause  for  suspicion  against 
the  girl. 

He  next  practised  the  same  precaution  in  relation 
to  the  shopman.  There  was  more  difficulty  and 
uncertainty  in  privately  clearing  up  this  person's 
character  without  his  knowledge,  but  the  obstacles 
were  at  last  smoothed  away  with  tolerable  success; 
and,  though  there  is  not  the  same  amount  of  cer- 
tainty in  this  case  which  there  was  in  the  case  of  the 
girl,  there  is  still  fair  reason  for  supposing  that  the 
shopman  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  robbery  of 
the  cash-box. 

As  a  necessary  consequence  of  these  proceedings, 
the  range  of  suspicion  now  becomes  limited  to  the 
lodger,  Mr.  Jay. 

When  I  presented  your  letter  of  introduction  to 
74 


The  Biter  Bit 

Sergeant  Bulmer,  he  had  already  made  some  in- 
quiries on  the  subject  of  this  young  man.  The 
result,  so  far,  has  not  been  at  all  favourable.  Mr. 
Jay's  habits  are  irregular;  he  frequents  public 
houses,  and  seems  to  be  familiarly  acquainted  with 
a  great  many  dissolute  characters;  he  is  in  debt  to 
most  of  the  tradespeople  whom  he  employs;  he  has 
not  paid  his  rent  to  Mr.  Yatman  for  the  last  month; 
yesterday  evening  he  came  home  excited  by  liquor, 
and  last  week  he  was  seen  talking  to  a  prizefighter; 
in  short,  though  Mr.  Jay  does  call  himself  a  journal- 
ist, in  virtue  of  his  penny-a-line  contributions  to 
the  newspapers,  he  is  a  young  man  of  low  taste, 
vulgar  manners,  and  bad  habits.  Nothing  has  yet 
been  discovered  in  relation  to  him  which  redounds 
to  his  credit  in  the  smallest  degree. 

I  have  now  reported,  down  to  the  very  last  details, 
all  the  particulars  communicated  to  me  by  Sergeant 
Bulmer.  I  believe  you  will  not  find  an  omission  any- 
where; and  I  think  you  will  admit,  though  you  are 
prejudiced  against  me,  that  a  clearer  statement  of 
facts  was  never  laid  before  you  than  the  statement 
I  have  now  made.  My  next  duty  is  to  tell  you  what 
I  propose  to  do  now  that  the  case  is  confided  to  my 
hands. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  clearly  my  business  to  take 
up  the  case  at  the  point  where  Sergeant  Bulmer  has 
left  it.  On  his  authority,  I  am  justified  in  assuming 
that  I  have  no  need  to  trouble  myself  about  the 
maid-of-all-work  and  the  shopman.  Their  char- 
75 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

acters  are  now  to  be  considered  as  cleared  up. 
What  remains  to  be  privately  investigated  is  the 
question  of  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  Mr.  Jay. 
Before  we  give  up  the  notes  for  lost,  we  must  make 
sure,  if  we  can,  that  he  knows  nothing  about  them. 

This  is  the  plan  that  I  have  adopted,  with  the  full 
approval  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman,  for  discovering 
whether  Mr.  Jay  is  or  is  not  the  person  who  has 
stolen  the  cash-box: 

I  propose  to-day  to  present  myself  at  the  house  in 
the  character  of  a  young  man  who  is  looking  for 
lodgings.  The  back  room  on  the  second  floor  will  be 
shown  to  me  as  the  room  to  let,  and  I  shall  establish 
myself  there  to-night  as  a  person  from  the  country 
who  has  come  to  London  to  look  for  a  situation  in  a 
respectable  shop  or  office. 

By  this  means  I  shall  be  living  next  to  the  room 
occupied  by  Mr.  Jay.  The  partition  between  us  is 
mere  lath  and  plaster.  I  shall  make  a  small  hole  in 
it,  near  the  cornice,  through  which  I  can  see  what 
Mr.  Jay  does  in  his  room,  and  hear  every  word  that 
is  said  when  any  friend  happens  to  call  on  him. 
Whenever  he  is  at  home,  I  shall  be  at  my  post  of 
observation;  whenever  he  goes  out,  I  shall  be  after 
him.  By  employing  these  means  of  watching  him, 
I  believe  I  may  look  forward  to  the  discovery  of  his 
secret — if  he  knows  anything  about  the  lost  bank- 
notes— as  to  a  dead  certainty. 

What  you  may  think  of  my  plan  of  observation  I 
can  not  undertake  to  say.  It  appears  to  me  to 


The  Biter  Bit 

unite  the  invaluable  merits  of  boldness  and  sim- 
plicity. Fortified  by  this  conviction,  I  close  the 
present  communication  with  feelings  of  the  most 
sanguine  description  hi  regard  to  the  future,  and 
remain  your  obedient  servant, 

MATTHEW  SHARPIN. 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

7th  July. 

SIR, — As  you  have  not  honoured  me  with  any 
answer  to  my  last  communication,  I  assume  that,  in 
spite  of  your  prejudices  against  me,  it  has  produced 
the  favourable  impression  on  your  mind  which  I 
ventured  to  anticipate.  Gratified  and  encouraged 
beyond  measure  by  the  token  of  approval  which 
your  eloquent  silence  conveys  to  me,  I  proceed  to 
report  the  progress  that  has  been  made  in  the  course 
of  the  last  twenty-four  hours. 

I  am  now  comfortably  established  next  door  to 
Mr.  Jay,  and  I  am  delighted  to  say  that  I  have  two 
holes  in  the  partition  instead  of  one.  My  natural 
sense  of  humour  has  led  me  into  the  pardonable 
extravagance  of  giving  them  both  appropriate 
names.  One  I  call  my  peep-hole,  and  the  other  my 
pipe-hole.  The  name  of  the  first  explains  itself; 
the  name  of  the  second  refers  to  a  small  tin  pipe  or 
tube  inserted  in  the  hole,  and  twisted  so  that  the 
mouth  of  it  comes  close  to  my  ear  while  I  am  standing 
at  my  post  of  observation.  Thus,  while  I  am  looking 
T7 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

at  Mr.  Jay  through  my  peep-hole,  I  can  hear  every 
word  that  may  be  spoken  in  his  room  through  my 
pipe-hole. 

Perfect  candour — a  virtue  which  I  have  pos- 
sessed from  my  childhood — compels  me  to  acknowl- 
edge, before  I  go  any  farther,  that  the  ingenious 
notion  of  adding  a  pipe-hole  to  my  proposed  peep- 
hole originated  with  Mrs.  Yatman.  This  lady — a 
most  intelligent  and  accomplished  person,  simple, 
and  yet  distinguished  in  her  manners,  has  entered 
into  all  my  little  plans  with  an  enthusiasm  and 
intelligence  which  I  can  not  too  highly  praise.  Mr. 
Yatman  is  so  cast  down  by  his  loss  that  he  is  quite 
incapable  of  affording  me  any  assistance.  Mrs. 
Yatman,  who  is  evidently  most  tenderly  attached  to 
him,  feels  her  husband's  sad  condition  of  mind  even 
more  acutely  than  she  feels  the  loss  of  the  money, 
and  is  mainly  stimulated  to  exertion  by  her  desire 
to  assist  in  raising  him  from  the  miserable  state  of 
prostration  into  which  he  has  now  fallen. 

"The  money,  Mr.  Sharpin,"  she  said  to  me 
yesterday  evening,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "the 
money  may  be  regained  by  rigid  economy  and  strict 
attention  to  business.  It  is  my  husband's  wretched 
state  of  mind  that  makes  me  so  anxious  for  the 
discovery  of  the  thief.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  felt 
hopeful  of  success  as  soon  as  you  entered  the  house; 
and  I  believe  that,  if  the  wretch  who  robbed  us  is  to 
be  found,  you  are  the  man  to  discover  him."  I 
accepted  this  gratifying  compliment  in  the  spirit  in 
78 


The  Biter  Bit 

which  it  was  offered,  firmly  believing  that  I  shall  be 
found,  sooner  or  later,  to  have  thoroughly  deserved 
it. 

Let  me  now  return  to  business — that  is  to  say,  to 
my  peep-hole  and  my  pipe-hole. 

I  have  enjoyed  some  hours  of  calm  observation  of 
Mr.  Jay.  Though  rarely  at  home,  as  I  understand 
from  Mrs.  Yatman,  on  ordinary  occasions,  he  has 
been  indoors  the  whole  of  this  day.  That  is  suspi- 
cious, to  begin  with.  I  have  to  report,  further,  that 
he  rose  at  a  late  hour  this  morning  (always  a  bad 
sign  in  a  young  man),  and  that  he  lost  a  great  deal 
of  time,  after  he  was  up,  in  yawning  and  complaining 
to  himself  of  headache.  Like  other  debauched 
characters,  he  ate  little  or  nothing  for  breakfast. 
His  next  proceeding  was  to  smoke  a  pipe — a  dirty 
clay  pipe,  which  a  gentleman  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  put  between  his  lips.  When  he  had  done 
smoking  he  took  out  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  sat 
down  to  write  with  a  groan — whether  of  remorse  for 
having  taken  the  bank-notes,  or  of  disgust  at  the 
task  before  him,  I  am  unable  to  say.  After  writing 
a  few  lines  (too  far  away  from  my  peep-hole  to  give 
me  a  chance  of  reading  over  his  shoulder),  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  and  amused  himself  by  humming 
the  tunes  of  popular  songs.  I  recognized  "My 
Mary  Anne,"  "Bobbin'  Around,"  and  "Old  Dog 
Tray,"  among  other  melodies.  Whether  these  do 
or  do  not  represent  secret  signals  by  which  he  com- 
municates with  his  accomplices  remains  to  be  seen. 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

After  he  had  amused  himself  for  some  time  by 
humming,  he  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room,  occasionally  stopping  to  add  a  sentence  to  the 
paper  on  his  desk.  Before  long  he  went  to  a  locked 
cupboard  and  opened  it.  I  strained  my  eyes  eagerly, 
in  expectation  of  making  a  discovery.  I  saw  him 
take  something  carefully  out  of  the  cupboard — he 
turned  round — and  it  was  only  a  pint  bottle  of 
brandy!  Having  drunk  some  of  the  liquor,  this 
extremely  indolent  reprobate  lay  down  on  his  bed 
again,  and  in  five  minutes  was  fast  asleep. 

After  hearing  him  snoring  for  at  least  two  hours, 
I  was  recalled  to  my  peep-hole  by  a  knock  at  his 
door.  He  jumped  up  and  opened  it  with  suspicious 
activity. 

A  very  small  boy,  with  a  very  dirty  face,  walked 
in,  said,  "Please,  sir,  they're  waiting  for  you,"  sat 
down  with  his  legs  a  long  way  from  the  ground,  and 
instantly  fell  asleep!  Mr.  Jay  swore  an  oath,  tied  a 
wet  towel  round  his  head,  and,  going  back  to  his 
paper,  began  to  cover  it  with  writing  as  fast  as  his 
fingers  could  move  the  pen.  Occasionally  getting 
up  to  dip  the  towel  in  water  and  tie  it  on  again,  he 
continued  at  this  employment  for  nearly  three 
hours;  then  folded  up  the  leaves  of  writing,  woke  the 
boy,  and  gave  them  to  him,  with  this  remarkable 
expression:  "Now,  then,  young  sleepy-head,  quick 
march!  If  you  see  the  governor,  tell  him  to  have 
the  money  ready  for  me  when  I  call  for  it."  The 
boy  grinned  and  disappeared.  I  was  sorely  tempted 
80 


The  Biter  Bit 

to  follow  "sleepy-head,"  but,  on  reflection,  con- 
sidered it  safest  still  to  keep  my  eye  on  the  pro- 
ceedings of  Mr.  Jay. 

In  half  an  hour's  tune  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
walked  out.  Of  course,  I  put  on  my  hat  and  walked 
out  also.  As  I  went  downstairs  I  passed  Mrs. 
Yatman  going  up.  The  lady  has  been  kind  enough 
to  undertake,  by  previous  arrangement  between  us, 
to  search  Mr.  Jay's  room  while  he  is  out  of  the  way, 
and  while  I  am  necessarily  engaged  hi  the  pleasing 
duty  of  following  him  wherever  he  goes.  On  the 
occasion  to  which  I  now  refer,  he  walked  straight 
to  the  nearest  tavern,  and  ordered  a  couple  of 
mutton-chops  for  his  dinner.  I  placed  myself  in  the 
next  box  to  him,  and  ordered  a  couple  of  mutton- 
chops  for  my  dinner.  Before  I  had  been  in  the 
room  a  minute,  a  young  man  of  highly  suspicious 
manners  and  appearance,  sitting  at  a  table  opposite, 
took  his  glass  of  porter  in  his  hand  and  joined  Mr. 
Jay.  I  pretended  to  be  reading  the  newspaper,  and 
listened,  as  in  duty  bound,  with  all  my  might. 

"Jack  has  been  here  inquiring  after  you,"  says  the 
young  man. 

"Did  he  leave  any  message?"  asks  Mr.  Jay. 

"Yes,"  says  the  other.  "He  told  me,  if  I  met 
with  you,  to  say  that  he  wished  very  particularly  to 
see  you  to-night,  and  that  he  would  give  you  a  look 
in  at  Rutherford  Street  at  seven  o'clock." 

"  All  right, "  says  Mr.  Jay.  "  I'll  get  back  in  time 
to  see  him." 

81 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Upon  this,  the  suspicious-looking  young  man 
finished  his  porter,  and  saying  that  he  was  rather  in 
a  hurry,  took  leave  of  his  friend  (perhaps  I  should  not 
be  wrong  if  I  said  his  accomplice?),  and  left  the 
room. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  and  a  half  past  six — in 
these  serious  cases  it  is  important  to  be  particular 
about  time — Mr.  Jay  finished  his  chops  and  paid  his 
bill.  At  twenty-six  minutes  and  three  quarters  I 
finished  my  chops  and  paid  mine.  In  ten  minutes 
more  I  was  inside  the  house  in  Rutherford  Street, 
and  was  received  by  Mrs.  Yatman  in  the  passage. 
That  charming  woman's  face  exhibited  an  expression 
of  melancholy  and  disappointment  which  it  quite 
grieved  me  to  see. 

"I  am  afraid,  ma'am,"  says  I,  "that  you  have  not 
hit  on  any  little  criminating  discovery  in  the  lodger's 
room?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  sighed.  It  was  a  soft, 
languid,  fluttering  sigh — and,  upon  my  life,  it  quite 
upset  me.  For  the  moment  I  forgot  business,  and 
burned  with  envy  of  Mr.  Yatman. 

"Don't  despair,  ma'am,"  I  said,  with  an  insinuat- 
ing mildness  which  seemed  to  touch  her.  "I  have 
heard  a  mysterious  conversation — I  know  of  a  guilty 
appointment — and  I  expect  great  things  from  my 
peep-hole  and  my  pipe-hole  to-night.  Pray  don't  be 
alarmed,  but  I  think  we  are  on  the  brink  of  a  dis- 
covery." 

Here  my  enthusiastic  devotion  to  business  got 
82 


The  Biter  Bit 

the  better  part  of  my  tender  feelings.  I  looked — 
winked — nodded — left  her. 

When  I  got  back  to  my  observatory,  I  found  Mr. 
Jay  digesting  his  mutton-chops  in  an  arm-chair, 
with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  On  his  table  were  two 
tumblers,  a  jug  of  water,  and  the  pint  bottle  of 
brandy.  It  was  then  close  upon  seven  o'clock.  As 
the  hour  struck  the  person  described  as  "Jack" 
walked  in. 

He  looked  agitated — I  am  happy  to  say  he  looked 
violently  agitated.  The  cheerful  glow  of  antici- 
pated success  diffused  itself  (to  use  a  strong  expres- 
sion) all  over  me,  from  head  to  foot.  With  breath- 
less interest  I  looked  through  my  peep-hole,  and 
saw  the  visitor — the  "Jack"  of  this  delightful  case — 
sit  down,  facing  me,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table  to  Mr.  Jay.  Making  allowance  for  the  differ- 
ence in  expression  which  their  countenances  just 
now  happened  to  exhibit,  these  two  abandoned 
villains  were  so  much  alike  in  other  respects  as  to 
lead  at  once  to  the  conclusion  that  they  were  brothers. 
Jack  was  the  cleaner  man  and  the  better  dressed 
of  the  two.  I  admit  that,  at  the  outset.  It  is, 
perhaps,  one  of  my  failings  to  push  justice  and 
impartiality  to  their  utmost  limits.  I  am  no  Phari- 
see; and  where  Vice  has  its  redeeming  point,  I  say, 
let  Vice  have  its  due — yes,  yes,  by  all  manner  of 
means,  let  Vice  have  its  due. 

"What's  the  matter  now,  Jack?"  says  Mr.  Jay. 

"Can't  you  see  it  in  my  face?"  says  Jack.  "My 
83 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

dear  fellow,  delays  are  dangerous.  Let  us  have 
done  with  suspense,  and  risk  it,  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

"So  soon  as  that?"  cries  Mr.  Jay,  looking  very 
much  astonished.  "Well,  I'm  ready,  if  you  are. 
But,  I  say,  Jack,  is  somebody  else  ready  too?  Are 
you  quite  sure  of  that?" 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke — a  frightful  smile — and 
laid  a  very  strong  emphasis  on  those  two  words, 
"Somebody  else."  There  is  evidently  a  third 
ruffian,  a  nameless  desperado,  concerned  in  the 
business. 

"Meet  us  to-morrow,"  says  Jack,  "and  judge  for 
yourself.  Be  in  the  Regent's  Park  at  eleven  in  the 
morning,  and  look  out  for  us  at  the  turning  that 
leads  to  the  Avenue  Road." 

"I'll  be  there,"  says  Mr.  Jay.  "Have  a  drop  of 
brandy  and  water?  What  are  you  getting  up  for? 
You're  not  going  already?  " 

"Yes  I  am,"  says  Jack.  "The  fact  is,  I'm  so 
excited  and  agitated  that  I  can't  sit  still  anywhere 
for  five  minutes  together.  Ridiculous  as  it  may 
appear  to  you,  I'm  in  a  perpetual  state  of  nervous 
flutter.  I  can't,  for  the  life  of  me,  help  fearing  that 
we  shall  be  found  out.  I  fancy  that  every  man  who 
looks  twice  at  me  in  the  street  is  a  spy — " 

At  these  words  I  thought  my  legs  would  have  given 
way  under  me.  Nothing  but  strength  of  mind  kept 
me  at  my  peep-hole — nothing  else,  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honour. 

84 


The  Biter  Bit 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  cries  Mr.  Jay,  with  all  the 
effrontery  of  a  veteran  in  crime.  "We  have  kept  the 
secret  up  to  this  time,  and  we  will  manage  cleverly 
to  the  end.  Have  a  drop  of  brandy  and  water,  and 
you  will  feel  as  certain  about  it  as  I  do." 

Jack  steadily  refused  the  brandy  and  water,  and 
steadily  persisted  in  taking  his  leave. 

"  I  must  try  if  I  can't  walk  it  off, "  he  said.  "  Re- 
member to-morrow  morning — eleven  o'clock,  Avenue 
Road,  side  of  the  Regent's  Park." 

With  those  words  he  went  out.  His  hardened 
relative  laughed  desperately  and  resumed  the  dirty 
clay  pipe. 

I  sat  down  on  the  side  of  my  bed,  actually  quiver- 
ing with  excitement. 

It  is  clear  to  me  that  no  attempt  has  yet  been 
made  to  change  the  stolen  bank-notes,  and  I  may 
add  that  Sergeant  Buhner  was  of  that  opinion  also 
when  he  left  the  case  in  my  hands.  What  is  the 
natural  conclusion  to  draw  from  the  conversation 
which  I  have  just  set  down?  Evidently  that  the 
confederates  meet  to-morrow  to  take  then:  respective 
shares  in  the  stolen  money,  and  to  decide  on  the 
safest  means  of  getting  the  notes  changed  the  day 
after.  Mr.  Jay  is,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  leading 
criminal  in  this  business,  and  he  will  probably  run 
the  chief  risk — that  of  changing  the  fifty-pound  note. 
I  shall,  therefore,  still  make  it  my  business  to  follow 
him — attending  at  the  Regent's  Park  to-morrow, 
and  doing  my  best  to  hear  what  is  said  there.  If 
85 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

another  appointment  is  made  for  the  day  after,  I 
shall,  of  course,  go  to  it.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall 
want  the  immediate  assistance  of  two  competent 
persons  (supposing  the  rascals  separate  after  their 
meeting)  to  follow  the  two  minor  criminals.  It  is 
only  fair  to  add  that,  if  the  rogues  all  retire  together, 
I  shall  probably  keep  my  subordinates  in  reserve. 
Being  naturally  ambitious,  I  desire,  if  possible,  to 
have  the  whole  credit  of  discovering  this  robbery  to 

myself. 

8th  July. 

I  have  to  acknowledge,  with  thanks,  the  speedy 
arrival  of  my  two  subordinates — men  of  very  average 
abilities,  I  am  afraid;  but,  fortunately,  I  shall  always 
be  on  the  spot  to  direct  them. 

My  first  business  this  morning  was  necessarily  to 
prevent  possible  mistakes  by  accounting  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Yatman  for  the  presence  of  two  strangers  on 
the  scene.  Mr.  Yatman  (between  ourselves,  a 
poor,  feeble  man)  only  shook  his  head  and  groaned. 
Mrs.  Yatman  (that  superior  woman)  favoured  me 
with  a  charming  look  of  intelligence. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Sharpin ! "  she  said, "  I  am  so  sorry  to  see 
those  two  men!  Your  sending  for  their  assistance 
looks  as  if  you  were  beginning  to  be  doubtful  of 
success." 

I  privately  winked  at  her  (she  is  very  good  in 
allowing  me  to  do  so  without  taking  offence),  and 
told  her,  hi  my  facetious  way,  that  she  laboured 
under  a  slight  mistake. 

86 


The  Biter  Bit 

"It  is  because  I  am  sure  of  success,  ma'am,  that 
I  send  for  them.  I  am  determined  to  recover  the 
money,  not  for  my  own  sake  only,  but  for  Mr. 
Yatman's  sake — and  for  yours." 

I  laid  a  considerable  amount  of  stress  on  those  last 
three  words.  She  said,  "Oh,  Mr.  Sharpin!"  again, 
and  blushed  of  a  heavenly  red,  and  looked  down  at 
her  work.  I  could  go  to  the  world's  end  with  that 
woman  if  Mr.  Yatman  would  only  die. 

I  sent  off  the  two  subordinates  to  wait  until  I 
wanted  them  at  the  Avenue  Road  gate  of  the  Re- 
gent's Park.  Half  an  hour  afterward  I  was  follow- 
ing the  same  direction  myself  at  the  heels  of  Mr.  Jay. 

The  two  confederates  were  punctual  to  the  ap- 
pointed time.  I  blush  to  record  it,  but  it  is  never- 
theless necessary  to  state  that  the  third  rogue — the 
nameless  desperado  of  my  report,  or,  if  you  prefer  it, 
the  mysterious  "somebody  else"  of  the  conversation 
between  the  two  brothers — is — a  woman!  and,  what 
is  worse,  a  young  woman!  and,  what  is  more  lament- 
able still,  a  nice-looking  woman!  I  have  long  re- 
sisted a  growing  conviction  that,  wherever  there  is 
mischief  in  this  world,  an  individual  of  the  fair  sex 
is  inevitably  certain  to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  After  the 
experience  of  this  morning,  I  can  struggle  against 
that  sad  conclusion  no  longer.  I  give  up  the  sex— 
excepting  Mrs.  Yatman,  I  give  up  the  sex. 

The  man  named  "Jack"  offered  the  woman  his 
arm.  Mr.  Jay  placed  himself  on  the  other  side  of 
her.  The  three  then  walked  away  slowly  among 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

the  trees.  I  followed  them  at  a  respectful  distance. 
My  two  subordinates,  at  a  respectful  distance  also, 
followed  me. 

It  was,  I  deeply  regret  to  say,  impossible  to  get 
near  enough  to  them  to  overhear  their  conversation 
without  running  too  great  a  risk  of  being  discovered. 
I  could  only  infer  from  their  gestures  and  actions 
that  they  were  all  three  talking  with  extraordinary 
earnestness  on  some  subject  which  deeply  interested 
them.  After  having  been  engaged  in  this  way  a  full 
quarter  of  an  hour,  they  suddenly  turned  round  to 
retrace  their  steps.  My  presence  of  mind  did  not 
forsake  me  hi  this  emergency.  I  signed  to  the  two 
subordinates  to  walk  on  carelessly  and  pass  them, 
while  I  myself  slipped  dexterously  behind  a  tree. 
As  they  came  by  me,  I  heard  "Jack"  address  these 
words  to  Mr.  Jay: 

"Let  us  say  half  past  ten  to-morrow  morning. 
And  mind  you  come  in  a  cab.  We  had  better  not 
risk  taking  one  in  this  neighbourhood." 

Mr.  Jay  made  some  brief  reply  which  I  could  not 
overhear.  They  walked  back  to  the  place  at  which 
they  had  met,  shaking  hands  there  with  an  audacious 
cordiality  which  it  quite  sickened  me  to  see.  They 
then  separated.  I  followed  Mr.  Jay.  My  sub- 
ordinates paid  the  same  delicate  attention  to  the 
other  two. 

Instead  of  taking  me  back  to  Rutherford  Street,  Mr. 
Jay  led  me  to  the  Strand.  He  stopped  at  a  dingy, 
disreputable-looking  house,  which,  according  to  the 
88 


The  Biter  Bit 

inscription  over  the  door,  was  a  newspaper  office, 
but  which,  in  my  judgment,  had  all  the  external  ap- 
pearance of  a  place  devoted  to  the  reception  of 
stolen  goods. 

After  remaining  inside  for  a  few  minutes,  he  came 
out  whistling,  with  his  finger  and  thumb  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket.  Some  men  would  now  have  arrested 
him  on  the  spot.  I  remembered  the  necessity  of 
catching  the  two  confederates,  and  the  importance 
of  not  interfering  with  the  appointment  that  had 
been  made  for  the  next  morning.  Such  coolness  as 
this,  under  trying  circumstances,  is  rarely  to  be 
found,  I  should  imagine,  in  a  young  beginner,  whose 
reputation  as  a  detective  policeman  is  still  to  make. 

From  the  house  of  suspicious  appearance  Mr.  Jay 
betook  himself  to  a  cigar-divan,  and  read  the  mag- 
azines over  a  cheroot.  From  the  divan  he  strolled  to 
the  tavern  and  had  his  chops.  I  strolled  to  the  tav- 
ern and  had  my  chops.  When  he  had  done  he  went 
back  to  his  lodging.  When  I  had  done  I  went  back 
to  mine.  He  was  overcome  with  drowsiness  early  in 
the  evening,  and  went  to  bed.  As  soon  as  I  heard 
him  snoring,  I  was  overcome  with  drowsiness  and 
went  to  bed  also. 

Early  in  the  morning  my  two  subordinates  came 
to  make  their  report. 

They  had  seen  the  man  named  "Jack"  leave  the 

woman  at  the  gate  of  an  apparently  respectable 

villa  residence  not  far  from  the  Regent's  Park.    Left 

to  himself,  he  took  a  turning  to  the  right,  which  led 

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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

to  a  sort  of  suburban  street,  principally  inhabited  by 
shopkeepers.  He  stopped  at  the  private  door  of  one 
of  the  houses,  and  let  himself  in  with  his  own  key — 
looking  about  him  as  he  opened  the  door,  and  staring 
suspiciously  at  my  men  as  they  lounged  along  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way.  These  were  all  the  parti- 
culars which  the  subordinates  had  to  communicate. 
I  kept  them  in  my  room  to  attend  on  me,  if  needful, 
and  mounted  to  my  peep-hole  to  have  a  look  at  Mr. 
Jay. 

He  was  occupied  in  dressing  himself,  and  was  tak- 
ing extraordinary  pains  to  destroy  all  traces  of  the 
natural  slovenliness  of  his  appearance.  This  was 
precisely  what  I  expected.  A  vagabond  like  Mr. 
Jay  knows  the  importance  of  giving  himself  a  respect- 
able look  when  he  is  going  to  run  the  risk  of  chang- 
ing a  stolen  bank-note.  At  five  minutes  past  ten 
o'clock  he  had  given  the  last  brush  to  his  shabby 
hat  and  the  last  scouring  with  bread-crumb  to  his 
dirty  gloves.  At  ten  minutes  past  ten  he  was  in  the 
street,  on  his  way  to  the  nearest  cab-stand,  and  I 
and  my  subordinates  were  close  on  his  heels. 

He  took  a  cab,  and  we  took  a  cab.  I  had  not 
overheard  them  appoint  a  place  of  meeting  when 
following  them  in  the  Park  on  the  previous  day,  but 
I  soon  found  that  we  were  proceeding  in  the  old  direc- 
tion of  the  Avenue  Road  gate.  The  cab  in  which 
Mr.  Jay  was  riding  turned  into  the  Park  slowly.  We 
stopped  outside,  to  avoid  exciting  suspicion.  I  got 
out  to  follow  the  cab  on  foot.  Just  as  I  did  so,  I  saw 
90 


The  Biter  Bit 

it  stop,  and  detected  the  two  confederates  approach- 
ing it  from  among  the  trees.  They  got  in,  and  the 
cab  was  turned  about  directly.  I  ran  back  to  my 
own  cab,  and  told  the  driver  to  let  them  pass  him, 
and  then  to  follow  as  before. 

The  man  obeyed  my  directions,  but  so  clumsily 
as  to  excite  their  suspicions.  We  had  been  driving 
after  them  about  three  minutes  (returning  along  the 
road  by  which  we  had  advanced)  when  I  looked  out 
of  the  window  to  see  how  far  they  might  be  ahead  of 
us.  As  I  did  this,  I  saw  two  hats  popped  out  of  the 
windows  of  their  cab,  and  two  faces  looking  back  at 
me.  I  sank  into  my  place  in  a  cold  sweat;  the  expres- 
sion is  coarse,  but  no  other  form  of  words  can  de- 
scribe my  condition  at  that  trying  moment. 

"We  are  found  out!"  I  said,  faintly,  to  my  two 
subordinates.  They  stared  at  me  in  asonishment. 
My  feelings  changed  instantly  from  the  depth  of 
despair  to  the  height  of  indignation. 

"It  is  the  cabman's  fault.  Get  out,  one  of  you," 
I  said,  with  dignity — "get  out,  and  punch  his  head." 

Instead  of  following  my  directions  (I  should  wish 
this  act  of  disobedience  to  be  reported  at  head- 
quarters) they  both  looked  out  of  the  window.  Be- 
fore I  could  express  my  just  indignation,  they  both 
grinned,  and  said  to  me,  "Please  to  look  out,  sir!" 

I  did  look  out.    Their  cab  had  stopped. 

Where? 

At  a  church  door! 

What  effect  this  discovery  might  have  had  upon 
91 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

the  ordinary  run  of  men  I  don't  know.  Being  of  a 
strong  religious  turn  myself,  it  filled  me  with  horror. 
I  have  often  read  of  the  unprincipled  cunning  of 
criminal  persons,  but  I  never  before  heard  of  three 
thieves  attempting  to  double  on  their  pursuers  by 
entering  a  church!  The  sacrilegious  audacity  of 
that  proceeding  is,  I  should  think,  unparalleled  in  the 
annals  of  crime. 

I  checked  my  grinning  subordinates  by  a  frown. 
It  was  /easy  to  see  what  was  passing  in  their  super- 
ficial minds.  If  I  had  not  been  able  to  look  below 
the  surface,  I  might,  on  observing  two  nicely-dressed 
men  and  one  nicely-dressed  woman  enter  a  church 
before  eleven  in  the  morning  on  a  week  day,  have 
come  to  the  same  hasty  conclusion  at  which  my  in- 
feriors had  evidently  arrived.  As  it  was,  appearances 
had  no  power  to  impose  on  me.  I  got  out,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  one  of  my  men,  entered  the  church.  The 
other  man  I  sent  round  to  watch  the  vestry  door. 
You  may  catch  a  weasel  asleep,  but  not  your  hum- 
ble servant,  Matthew  Sharpin! 

We  stole  up  the  gallery  stairs,  diverged  to  the 
organ-loft,  and  peered  through  the  curtains  in  front. 
There  they  were,  all  three,  sitting  in  a  pew  below 
— yes,  incredible  as  it  may  appear,  sitting  in  a  pew 
below! 

Before  I  could  determine  what  to  do,  a  clergyman 

made  his  appearance  in  full  canonicals  from  the  vestry 

door,  followed  by  a  clerk.    My  brain  whirled  and 

my  eyesight  grew  dim.    Dark  remembrances  of  rob- 

92 


The  Biter  Bit 

beries  committed  in  vestries  floated  through  my 
mind.  I  trembled  for  the  excellent  man  in  full  canon- 
icals— I  even  trembled  for  the  clerk. 

The  clergyman  placed  himself  inside  the  altar 
rails.  The  three  desperadoes  approached  him.  He 
opened  his  book,  and  began  to  read.  What?  you 
will  ask. 

I  answer,  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  the  first 
lines  of  the  Marriage  Service. 

My  subordinate  had  the  audacity  to  look  at  me, 
and  then  to  stuff  his  pocket-handkerchief  into  his 
mouth.  I  scorned  to  pay  any  attention  to  him.  Af- 
ter I  had  discovered  that  the  man  "Jack"  was  the 
bridegroom,  and  that  the  man  Jay  acted  the  part  of 
father,  and  gave  away  the  bride,  I  left  the  church, 
followed  by  my  men,  and  joined  the  other  subordi- 
nate outside  the  vestry  door.  Some  people  in  my 
position  would  now  have  felt  rather  crestfallen,  and 
would  have  begun  to  think  that  they  had  made  a 
very  foolish  mistake.  Not  the  faintest  misgiving  of 
any  kind  troubled  me.  I  did  not  feel  in  the  slightest 
degree  depreciated  in  my  own  estimation.  And  even 
now,  after  a  lapse  of  three  hours,  my  mind  remains, 
I  am  happy  to  say,  in  the  same  calm  and  hopeful 
condition. 

As  soon  as  I  and  my  subordinates  were  assembled 
together  outside  the  church,  I  intimated  my  inten- 
tion of  still  following  the  other  cab  in  spite  of  what 
had  occurred.  My  reason  for  deciding  on  this  course 
will  appear  presently.  The  two  subordinates  ap- 
93 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

peared  to  be  astonished  at  my  resolution.  One  of 
them  had  the  impertinence  to  say  to  me, 

"'If  you  please,  sir,  who  is  it  that  we  are  after?  A 
man  who  has  stolen  money,  or  a  man  who  has  stolen 
a  wife?" 

The  other  low  person  encouraged  him  by  laugh- 
ing. Both  have  deserved  an  official  reprimand,  and 
both,  I  sincerely  trust,  will  be  sure  to  get  it. 

When  the  marriage  ceremony  was  over,  the  three 
got  into  their  cab,  and  once  more  our  vehicle  (neatly 
hidden  round  the  corner  of  the  church)  started  to 
follow  theirs. 

We  traced  them  to  the  terminus  of  the  South- 
western Railway.  The  newly-married  couple  took 
tickets  for  Richmond,  paying  their  fare  with  a  half 
sovereign,  and  so  depriving  me  of  the  pleasure  of 
arresting  them,  which  I  should  certainly  have  done 
if  they  had  offered  a  banknote.  They  parted  from 
Mr.  Jay,  saying,  ^Remember  the  address — 14  Baby- 
lon Terrace.  You  dine  with  us  to-morrow  week." 
Mr.  Jay  accepted  the  invitation,  and  added,  jocose- 
ly, that  he  was  going  home  at  once  to  get  off  his 
clean  clothes,  and  to  be  comfortable  and  dirty  again 
for  the  rest  of  the  day.  I  have  to  report  that  I  saw 
him  home  safely,  and  that  he  is  comfortable  and 
dirty  again  (to  use  his  own  disgraceful  language)  at 
the  present  moment. 

Here  the  affair  rests,  having  by  this  tune  reached 
what  I  may  call  its  first  stage.  < 

I  know  very  well  what  persons  of  hasty  judgment 
94 


The  Biter  Bit 

will  be  inclined  to  say  of  my  proceedings  thus  far. 
They  will  assert  that  I  have  been  deceiving  myself 
all  through  in  the  most  absurd  way;  they  will  de- 
clare that  the  suspicious  conversations  which  I  have 
reported  referred  solely  to  the  difficulties  and  dan- 
gers of  successfully  carrying  out  a  runaway  match; 
and  they  will  appeal  to  the  scene  in  the  church  as 
offering  undeniable  proof  of  the  correctness  of  their 
assertions.  So  let  it  be.  I  dispute  nothing  up  to 
this  point.  But  I  ask  a  question,  out  of  the  depths 
of  my  own  sagacity  as  a  man  of  the  world,  which  the 
bitterest  of  my  enemies  will  not,  I  think,  find  it 
particularly  easy  to  answer. 

Granted  the  fact  of  the  marriage,  what  proof  does 
it  afford  me  of  the  innocence  of  the  three  persons 
concerned  in  that  clandestine  transaction?  It  gives 
me  none.  On  the  contrary,  it  strengthens  my  sus- 
picions against  Mr.  Jay  and  his  confederates,  because 
it  suggests  a  distinct  motive  for  their  stealing  the 
money.  A  gentleman  who  is  going  to  spend  his 
honeymoon  at  Richmond  wants  money;  and  a  gen- 
tleman who  is  in  debt  to  all  his  tradespeople  wants 
money.  Is  this  an  unjustifiable  imputation  of  bad 
motives?  In  the  name  of  outraged  Morality,  I  deny 
it.  These  men  have  combined  together,  and  have 
stolen  a  woman.  Why  should  they  not  combine  to- 
gether and  steal  a  cash-box?  I  take  my  stand  on 
the  logic  of  rigid  Virtue,  and  I  defy  all  the  sophistry 
of  Vice  to  move  me  an  inch  out  of  my  position. 

Speaking  of  virtue,  I  may  add  that  I  have  put  this 
95 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

view  of  the  case  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman.  That 
accomplished  and  charming  woman  found  it  difficult 
at  first  to  follow  the  close  chain  of  my  reasoning.  I 
am  free  to  confess  that  she  shook  her  head,  and  shed 
tears,  and  joined  her  husband  in  premature  lamenta- 
tion over  the  loss  of  the  two  hundred  pounds.  But 
a  little  careful  explanation  on  my  part,  and  a  little 
attentive  listening  on  hers,  ultimately  changed  her 
opinion.  She  now  agrees  with  me  that  there  is  noth- 
ing in  this  unexpected  circumstance  of  the  clandes- 
tine marriage  which  absolutely  tends  to  divert  sus- 
picion from  Mr.  Jay,  or  Mr.  "Jack,"  or  the  runaway 
lady.  "Audacious  hussy"  was  the  term  my  fair 
friend  used  in  speaking  of  her;  but  let  that  pass.  It 
is  more  to  the  purpose  to  record  that  Mrs.  Yatman 
has  not  lost  confidence  in  me,  and  that  Mr.  Yatman 
promises  to  follow  her  example,  and  do  his  best  to 
look  hopefully  for  future  results. 

I  have  now,  in  the  new  turn  that  circumstances 
have  taken,  to  await  advice  from  your  office.  I 
pause  for  fresh  orders  with  all  the  composure  of  a 
man  who  has  got  two  strings  to  his  bow.  When  I 
traced  the  three  confederates  from  the  church  door 
to  the  railway  terminus,  I  had  two  motives  for  doing 
so.  First,  I  followed  them  as  a  matter  of  official 
business,  believing  them  still  to  have  been  guilty  of 
the  robbery.  Secondly,  I  followed  them  as  a  mat- 
ter of  private  speculation,  with  a  view  of  discovering 
the  place  of  refuge  to  which  the  runaway  couple  in- 
tended to  retreat,  and  of  making  my  information  a 
96 


The  Biter  Bit 

marketable  commodity  to  offer  to  the  young  lady's 
family  and  friends.  Thus,  whatever  happens,  I  may 
congratulate  myself  beforehand  on  not  having  wast- 
ed my  time.  If  the  office  approves  of  my  conduct, 
I  have  my  plan  ready  for  further  proceedings.  If  the 
office  blames  me,  I  shall  take  myself  off,  with  my 
marketable  information,  to  the  genteel  villa  resi- 
dence in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Regent's  Park. 
Any  way,  the  affair  puts  money  into  my  pocket,  and 
does  credit  to  my  penetration  as  an  uncommonly 
sharp  man. 

I  have  only  one  word  more  to  add,  and  it  is  this: 
If  any  individual  ventures  to  assert  that  Mr.  Jay 
and  his  confederates  are  innocent  of  all  share  in 
the  stealing  of  the  cash-box,  I,  in  return,  defy 
that  individual — though  he  may  even  be  the  Chief 
Inspector  Theakstone  himself — to  tell  me  who 
has  committed  the  robbery  at  Rutherford  Street, 
Soho. 

Strong  in  that  conviction,  I  have  the  honour  to  be 
your  very  obedient  servant, 

MATTHEW  SHARPEST. 

FROM  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE  TO  SERGEANT 

BULMER. 

Birmingham,  July  gth. 

SERGEANT  BULMER, — That  empty-headed  puppy, 
Mr.  Matthew  Sharpin,  has  made  a  mess  of  the  case 
at  Rutherford  Street,  exactly  as  I  expected  he  would. 
97 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Business  keeps  me  in  this  town,  so  I  write  to  you  to 
set  the  matter  straight.  I  inclose  with  this  the  pages 
of  feeble  scribble-scrabble  which  the  creature  Shar- 
pin  calls  a  report.  Look  them  over;  and  when  you 
have  made  your  way  through  all  the  gabble,  I  think 
you  will  agree  with  me  that  the  conceited  booby  has 
looked  for  the  thief  in  every  direction  but  the  right 
one.  You  can  lay  your  hand  on  the  guilty  person  in 
five  minutes,  now.  Settle  the  case  at  once;  forward 
your  report  to  me  at  this  place,  and  tell  Mr.  Sharpin 
that  he  is  suspended  till  further  notice. 
Yours, 

FRANCIS  THEAKSTONE. 

FROM  SERGEANT  BULMER  TO  CHIEF  INSPECTOR 
THEAKSTONE. 

London,  July  loth. 

INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE, — Your  letter  and  in- 
closure  came  safe  to  hand.  Wise  men,  they  say, 
may  always  learn  something  even  from  a  fool.  By 
the  time  I  had  got  through  Sharpin's  maundering 
report  of  his  own  folly,  I  saw  my  way  clear  enough 
to  the  end  of  the  Rutherford  Street  case,  just  as  you 
thought  I  should*  In  half  an  hour's  time  I  was  at 
the  house.  The  first  person  I  saw  there  was  Mr. 
Sharpin  himself. 

"Have  you  come  to  help  me?"  says  he. 

"Not  exactly,"  says  I.     "I've  come  to  tell  you 
that  you  are  suspended  till  further  notice." 
98 


The  Biter  Bit 

"Very  good,"  says  he,  not  taken  down  by  so  much 
as  a  single  peg  in  his  own  estimation.  "I  thought 
you  would  be  jealous  of  me.  It's  very  natural;  and 
I  don't  blame  you.  Walk  in,  pray,  and  make  your- 
self at  home.  I'm  off  to  do  a  little  detective  business 
on  my  own  account,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Regent's  Park.  Ta-ta,  sergeant,  ta-ta!" 

With  those  words  he  took  himself  out  of  the  way, 
Which  was  exactly  what  I  wanted  him  to  do. 

As  soon  as  the  maid-servant  had  shut  the  door,  I 
told  her  to  inform  her  master  that  I  wanted  to  say  a 
word  to  him  in  private.  She  showed  me  into  the 
parlour  behind  the  shop,  and  there  was  Mr.  Yatman 
all  alone,  reading  the  newspaper. 

"About  this  matter  of  the  robbery,  sir,"  says  I 

He  cut  me  short,  peevishly  enough,  being  natural- 
ly a  poor,  weak,  womanish  sort  of  man.  "  Yes,  yes, 
I  know,"  says  he.  "You  have  come  to  tell  me  that 
your  wonderfully  clever  man,  who  has  bored  holes 
in  my  second-floor  partition,  has  made  a  mistake, 
and  is  off  the  scent  of  the  scoundrel  who  has  stolen 
my  money."  *s 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  I.  "That  is  one  of  the  things  I 
came  to  tell  you.  But  I  have  got  something  else  to 
say  besides  that." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  who  the  thief  is?"  says  he  more 
pettish  than  ever. 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  I,  "I  think  I  can." 

He  put  down  the  newspaper,  and  began  to  look 
rather  anxious  and  frightened. 
99 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Not  my  shopman?"  says  he.  "I  hope,  for  the 
man's  own  sake,  it's  not  my  shopman." 

"  Guess  again,  sir,"  says  I. 

"That  idle  slut,  the  maid?"  says  he. 

"She  is  idle,  sir,"  says  I,  "and  she  is  also  a  slut; 
my  first  inquiries  about  her  proved  as  much  as  that. 
But  she's  not  the  thief." 

"Then,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  who  is?"  says  he. 

"Will  you  please  to  prepare  yourself  for  a  very 
disagreeable  surprise,  sir?"  says  I.  "And,  in  case 
you  lose  your  temper,  will  you  excuse  remarking  that 
I  am  the  stronger  man  of  the  two,  and  that,  if  you 
allow  yourself  to  lay  hands  on  me,  I  may  uninten- 
tionally hurt  you,  in  pure  self-defence." 

He  turned  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  pushed  his  chair 
two  or  three  feet  away  from  me. 

"You  have  asked  me  to  tell  you,  sir,  who  has  tak- 
en your  money,"  I  went  on.  "If  you  insist  on  my 
giving  you  an  answer — " 

"  I  do  insist,"  he  said,  faintly.  "  Who  has  taken  it?  " 

"Your  wife  has  taken  it,"  I  said,  very  quietly, 
and  very  positively  at  the  same  time. 

He  jumped  out  of  the  chair  as  if  I  had  put  a  knife 
into  him,  and  struck  his  fist  on  the  table  so  heavily 
that  the  wood  cracked  again. 

"Steady,  sir,"  says  I.  "Flying  into  a  passion 
won't  help  you  to  the  truth." 

"It's  a  lie!"  says  he,  with  another  smack  of  his 
fist  on  the  table — "a  base,  vile,  infamous  lie!  How 
dare  you — " 

100 


The  Biter  Bit 

He  stopped,  and  fell  back  into  the  chair  again, 
looked  about  him  in  a  bewildered  way,  and  ended  by 
bursting  out  crying. 

"When  your  better  sense  comes  back  to  you,  sir," 
says  I,  "I  am  sure  you  will  be  gentleman  enough  to 
make  an  apology  for  the  language  you  have  just  used. 
In  the  mean  time,  please  to  listen,  if  you  can,  to  a 
word  of  explanation.  Mr.  Sharpin  has  sent  in  a 
report  to  our  inspector  of  the  most  irregular  and 
ridiculous  kind,  setting  down  not  only  all  his  own 
foolish  doings  and  sayings,  but  the  doings  and  say- 
ings of  Mrs.  Yatman  as  well.  In  most  cases,  such  a 
document  would  have  been  fit  only  for  the  waste- 
paper  basket;  but  in  this  particular  case  it  so  happens 
that  Mr.  Sharpin's  budget  of  nonsense  leads  to  a 
certain  conclusion,  which  the  simpleton  of  a  writer 
has  been  quite  innocent  of  suspecting  from  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end.  Of  that  conclusion  I  am  so  sure 
that  I  will  forfeit  my  place  if  it  does  not  turn  out 
that  Mrs.  Yatman  has  been  practising  upon  the  folly 
and  conceit  of  this  young  man,  and  that  she  has 
tried  to  shield  herself  from  discovery  by  purposely 
encouraging  him  to  suspect  the  wrong  persons.  I 
tell  you  that  confidently;  and  I  will  even  go  farther. 
I  will  undertake  to  give  a  decided  opinion  as  to  why 
Mrs.  Yatman  took  the  money,  and  what  she  has 
done  with  it,  or  with  a  part  of  it.  Nobody  can  look 
at  that  lady,  sir,  without  being  struck  by  the  great 
taste  and  beauty  of  her  dress — " 

As  I  said  those  last  words,  the  poor  man  seemed 
101 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

to  find  his  powers  of  speech  again.  He  cut  me  short 
directly  as  haughtily  as  if  he  had  been  a  duke  instead 
of  a  stationer. 

"Try  some  other  means  of  justifying  your  vile 
calumny  against  my  wife,"  says  he.  "  Her  milliner's 
bill  for  the  past  year  is  on  my  file  of  receipted  ac- 
counts at  this  moment." 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  says  I,  "but  that  proves  noth- 
ing. Milliners,  I  must  tell  you,  have  a  certain  ras- 
cally custom  which  comes  within  the  daily  experience 
of  our  office.  A  married  lady  who  wished  it  can  keep 
two  accounts  at  her  dressmaker's:  one  is  the  account 
which  her  husband  sees  and  pays;  the  other  is  the 
private  account,  which  contains  all  the  extravagant 
items,  and  which  the  wife  pays  secretly,  by  install- 
ments, whenever  she  can.  According  to  our  usual 
experience,  these  installments  are  mostly  squeezed 
out  of  the  housekeeping  money.  In  your  case,  I 
suspect,  no  installments  have  been  paid;  proceedings 
have  been  threatened;  Mrs.  Yatman,  knowing  your 
altered  circumstances,  has  felt  herself  driven  into  a 
corner,  and  she  has  paid  her  private  account  out  of 
your  cash-box." 

"I  won't  believe  it,"  says  he.  "Every  word  you 
speak  is  an  abominable  insult  to  me  and  to  my  wife." 

"Are  you  man  enough,  sir,"  says  I,  taking  him  up 
short,  in  order  to  save  time  and  words,  "  to  get  that 
receipted  bill  you  spoke  of  just  now  off  the  file,  and 
come  with  me  at  once  to  the  milliner's  shop  where 
Mrs.  Yatman  deals?" 

102 


The  Biter  Bit 

He  turned  red  in  the  face  at  that,  got  the  bill  di- 
rectly, and  put  on  his  hat.  I  took  out  of  my  pocket- 
book  the  list  containing  the  numbers  of  the  lost 
notes,  and  we  left  the  house  together  immediately. 

Arrived  at  the  milliner's  (one  of  the  expensive 
West-end  houses,  as  I  expected),  I  asked  for  a  private 
interview,  on  important  business,  with  the  mistress 
of  the  concern.  It  was  not  the  first  tune  that  she 
and  I  had  met  over  the  same  delicate  investigation. 
The  moment  she  set  eyes  on  me  she  sent  for  her 
husband.  I  mentioned  who  Mr.  Yatman  was,  and 
what  we  wanted. 

"This  is  strictly  private?"  inquires  the  husband. 
I  nodded  my  head. 

"And  confidential?"  says  the  wife.  I  nodded 
again. 

"Do  you  see  any  objection,  dear,  to  obliging  the 
sergeant  with  a  sight  of  the  books?"  says  her  hus- 
band. 

"None  in  the  world,  love,  if  you  approve  of  it," 
says  the  wife. 

All  this  while  poor  Mr.  Yatman  sat  looking  the 
picture  of  astonishment  and  distress,  quite  out  of 
place  at  our  polite  conference.  The  books  were 
brought,  and  one  minute's  look  at  the  pages  in  which 
Mrs.  Yatman's  name  figured  was  enough,  and  more 
than  enough,  to  prove  the  truth  of  every  word  that 
I  had  spoken. 

There,  in  one  book,  was  the  husband's  account 
which  Mr.  Yatman  had  settled;  and  there,  in  the 
103 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

other,  was  the  private  account,  crossed  off  also,  the 
date  of  settlement  being  the  very  day  after  the  loss 
of  the  cash-box.  This  said  private  account  amount- 
ed to  the  sum  of  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds, 
odd  shillings,  and  it  extended  over  a  period  of  three 
years.  Not  a  single  installment  had  been  paid  on  it. 
Under  the  last  line  was  an  entry  to  this  effect: 
"  Written  to  for  the  third  time,  June  23d."  I  pointed 
to  it,  and  asked  the  milliner  if  that  meant  "last 
June."  Yes,  it  did  mean  last  June;  and  she  now 
deeply  regretted  to  say  that  it  had  been  accom- 
panied by  a  threat  of  legal  proceedings. 

"I  thought  you  gave  good  customers  more  than 
three  years'  credit?"  says  I. 

The  milliner  looks  at  Mr.  Yatman,  and  whis- 
pers to  me,  "Not  when  a  lady's  husband  gets  into 
difficulties." 

She  pointed  to  the  account  as  she  spoke.  The 
entries  after  the  time  when  Mr.  Yatman's  circum- 
stances became  involved  were  just  as  extravagant 
for  a  person  in  his  wife's  situation,  as  the  entries  for 
the  year  before  that  period.  If  the  lady  had  econo- 
mized in  other  things,  she  had  certainly  not  econo- 
mized in  the  matter  of  dress. 

There  was  nothing  left  now  but  to  examine  the 
cash-book,  for  form's  sake.  The  money  had  been 
paid  in  notes,  the  amounts  and  numbers  of  which 
exactly  tallied  with  the  figures  set  down  in  my  list. 

After  that,  I  thought  it  best  to  get  Mr.  Yatman 
out  of  the  house  immediately.    He  was  in  such  a 
104 


The  Biter  Bit 

pitiable  condition  that  I  called  a  cab  and  accom- 
panied him  home  in  it.  At  first  he  cried  and  raved 
like  a  child;  but  I  soon  quieted  him;  and  I  must  add, 
to  his  credit,  that  he  made  me  a  most  handsome 
apology  for  his  language  as  the  cab  drew  up  at  his 
house  door.  In  return,  I  tried  to  give  him  some  ad- 
vice about  how  to  set  matters  right  for  the  future 
with  his  wife.  He  paid  very  little  attention  to  me, 
and  went  up  stairs  muttering  to  himself  about  a 
separation.  Whether  Mrs.  Yatman  will  come  clev- 
erly out  of  the  scrape  or  not  seems  doubtful.  I 
should  say  myself  that  she  would  go  into  screeching 
hysterics,  and  so  frighten  the  poor  man  into  forgiv- 
ing her.  But  this  is  no  business  of  ours.  So  far  as 
we  are  concerned,  the  case  is  now  at  an  end,  and  the 
present  report  may  come  to  a  conclusion  along  with 
ft. 
I  remain,  accordingly,  yours  to  command, 

THOMAS  BULMER. 

P.S, — I  have  to  add  that,  on  leaving  Rutherford 
Street,  I  met  Mr.  Matthew  Sharpin  coming  to  pack 
up  his  things. 

"Only  think!"  says  he,  rubbing  his  hands  in  great 
spirits,  "  I've  been  to  the  genteel  villa  residence,  and 
the  moment  I  mentioned  my  business  they  kicked 
me  out  directly.  There  were  two  witnesses  of  the 
assault,  and  it's  worth  a  hundred  pounds  to  me  if  it's 
worth  a  farthing." 

"I  wish  you  joy  of  your  luck,"  says  I. 
105 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Thank  you,"  says  he.  "When  may  I  pay  you 
the  same  compliment  on  finding  the  thief?" 

"Whenever  you  like,"  says  I,  "for  the  thief  is 
found." 

"Just  what  I  expected,"  says  he.  "I've  done  all 
the  work,  and  now  you  cut  in  and  claim  all  the 
credit — Mr.  Jay,  of  course." 

"No,"  says  I. 

"Who  is  it  then?"  says  he. 

"Ask  Mrs.  Yatman,"  says  I.  "She's  waiting  to 
tell  you." 

"All  right!  I'd  much  rather  hear  it  from  that 
charming  woman  than  from  you,"  says  he,  and  goes 
into  the  house  in  a  mighty  hurry. 

What  do  you  think  of  that,  Inspector  Theakstone? 
Would  you  like  to  stand  in  Mr.  Sharpin's  shoes?  I 
shouldn't,  I  can  promise  you. 

FROM  CHIEF   INSPECTOR   THEAKSTONE   TO   MR.    MAT- 
THEW SHARPIN. 

July  1 2th. 

SIR, — Sergeant  Buhner  has  already  told  you  to 
consider  yourself  suspended  until  further  notice.  I 
have  now  authority  to  add  that  your  services  as  a 
member  of  the  Detective  Police  are  positively  de- 
clined. You  will  please  to  take  this  letter  as  notify- 
ing officially  your  dismissal  from  the  force. 

I  may  inform  you,  privately,  that  your  rejection 
is  not  intended  to  cast  any  reflections  on  your  char- 
106 


The  Biter  Bit 

acter.   It  merely  implies  that  you  are  not  quite  sharp 
enough  for  our  purposes.    If  we  are  to  have  a  new 
recruit  among  us,  we  should  infinitely  prefer  Mrs. 
Yatman. 
Your  obedient  servant, 

FRANCIS  THEAKSTONE. 


NOTE    ON    THE    PRECEDING    CORRESPONDENCE,    ADDED    BY    MR. 
THEAKSTONE. 

The  inspector  is  not  in  a  position  to  append  any  explanation 
of  importance  to  the  last  of  the  letters.  It  has  been  dis- 
covered that  Mr.  Matthew  Sharpin  left  the  house  in  Ruther- 
ford Street  five  minutes  after  his  interview  outside  of  it  with 
Sergeant  Bulmer,  his  manner  expressing  the  liveliest  emotions 
of  terror  and  astonishment,  and  his  left  cheek  displaying  a 
bright  patch  of  red,  which  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  the 
result  of  what  is  popularly  termed  a  smart  box  on  the  ear. 
He  was  also  heard  by  the  shopman  at  Rutherford  Street  to  use 
a  very  shocking  expression  in  reference  to  Mrs.  Yatman,  and 
was  seen  to  clench  his  fist  vindictively  as  he  ran  round  the 
corner  of  the  street.  Nothing  more  has  been  heard  of  him; 
and  it  is  conjectured  that  he  has  left  London  with  the  intention 
of  offering  his  valuable  services  to  the  provincial  police. 

On  the  interesting  domestic  subject  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yat- 
man still  less  is  known.  It  has,  however,  been  positively 
ascertained  that  the  medical  attendant  of  the  family  was  sent 
for  in  a  great  hurry  on  the  day  when  Mr.  Yatman  returned 
from  the  milliner's  shop.  The  neighbouring  chemist  re- 
ceived, soon  afterward,  a  prescription  of  a  soothing  nature  to 
make  up  for  Mrs.  Yatman.  The  day  after,  Mr.  Yatman 
purchased  some  smelling-salts  at  the  shop,  and  afterward 
appeared  at  the  circulating  library  to  ask  for  a  novel  descrip- 
tive of  high  life  that  would  amuse  an  invalid  lady.  It  has 
been  inferred  from  these  circumstances  that  he  has  not  thought 
it  desirable  to  carry  out  his  threat  of  separating  from  his  wife, 
at  least  in  the  present  (presumed)  condition  of  that  lady's 
sensitive  nervous  system. 

107 


IV 

MISSING:  PAGE  THIRTEEN* 
ANNA  KATHERINE  GREEN f 


ONE  more!  just  one  more  well-paying  affair, 
and  I  promise  to  stop;  really  and  truly  to 
stop." 

"But,  Puss,  why  one  more?  You  have  earned  the 
amount  you  set  for  yourself, — or  very  nearly, — and 
though  my  help  is  not  great,  in  three  months  I  can 
add  enough — " 

"No,  you  cannot,  Arthur.  You  are  doing  well; 
I  appreciate  it;  in  fact,  I  am  just  delighted  to  have 
you  work  for  me  in  the  way  you  do,  but  you  cannot, 
in  your  position,  make  enough  in  three  months,  or 
in  six,  to  meet  the  situation  as  I  see  it.  Enough 
does  not  satisfy  me.  The  measure  must  be  full, 
heaped  up,  and  running  over.  Possible  failure  fol- 
lowing promise  must  be  provided  for.  Never  must 
I  feel  myself  called  upon  to  do  this  kind  of  thing 

*  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  G.  P.  Putnam 's  Sons. 

fAn  adventure  of  Violet  Strange, , the  female  counterpart  of  Auguste 
Dupin,  Sherlock  'Holmes,  and  Craig  Kennedy.  Undoubtedly  the  most 
unique  and  original  detective  in  fiction.  A  witch-woman — but  always 
charming! 

108 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

again.  Besides,  I  have  never  got  over  the  Zabriskie 
tragedy.  It  haunts  me  continually.  Something 
new  may  help  to  put  it  out  of  my  head.  I  feel  guilty. 
I  was  responsible — " 

"No,  Puss.  I  will  not  have  it  that  you  were  re- 
sponsible. Some  such  end  was  bound  to  follow  a 
complication  like  that.  Sooner  or  later  he  would 
have  been  driven  to  shoot  himself — " 

"But  not  her." 

"No,  not  her.  But  do  you  think  she  would  have 
given  those  few  minutes  of  perfect  understanding 
with  her  blind  husband  for  a  few  years  more  of  mis- 
erable life?" 

Violet  made  no  answer;  she  was  too  absorbed  in 
her  surprise.  Was  this  Arthur?  Had  a  few  weeks' 
work  and  a  close  connection  with  the  really  serious 
things  of  life  made  this  change  in  him?  Her  face 
beamed  at  the  thought,  which  seeing,  but  not  under- 
standing what  underlay  this  evidence  of  joy,  he  bent 
and  kissed  her,  saying  with  some  of  his  old  non- 
chalance: 

"Forget  it,  Violet;  only  don't  let  anyone  or  any- 
thing lead  you  to  interest  yourself  in  another  affair 
of  the  kind.  If  you  do,  I  shall  have  to  consult  a 
certain  friend  of  yours  as  to  the  best  way  of 
stopping  this  folly.  I  mention  no  names.  Oh! 
you  need  not  look  so  frightened.  Only  behave; 
that's  all." 

"He's  right,"  she  acknowledged  to  herself,  as  he 
sauntered  away;  "altogether  right." 
109 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 
i 
Yet  because  she  wanted  the  extra  money — 

The  scene  invited  alarm, — that  is,  for  so  young  a 
girl  as  Violet,  surveying  it  from  an  automobile  some 
time  after  the  stroke  of  midnight.  An  unknown 
house  at  the  end  of  a  heavily  shaded  walk,  in  the 
open  doorway  of  which  could  be  seen  the  silhouette 
of  a  woman's  form  leaning  eagerly  forward  with 
arms  outstretched  in  an  appeal  for  help !  It  vanished 
while  she  looked,  but  the  effect  remained,  holding 
her  to  her  seat  for  one  startled  moment.  This 
seemed  strange,  for  she  had  anticipated  adventure. 
One  is  not  summoned  from  a  private  ball  to  ride  a 
dozen  miles  into  the  country  on  an  errand  of  in- 
vestigation, without  some  expectation  of  encounter- 
ing the  mysterious  and  the  tragic.  But  Violet 
Strange,  for  all  her  many  experiences,  was  of  a  most 
susceptible  nature,  and  for  the  instant  in  which  that 
door  stood  open,  with  only  the  memory  of  that  ex- 
pectant figure  to  disturb  the  faintly  lit  vista  of  the 
hall  beyond,  she  felt  that  grip  upon  the  throat  which 
comes  from  an  indefinable  fear  which  no  words  can 
explain  and  no  plummet  sound. 

But  this  soon  passed.  With  the  setting  of  her  foot 
to  ground,  conditions  changed  and  her  emotions  took 
on  a  more  normal  character.  The  figure  of  a  man 
now  stood  in  the  place  held  by  the  vanished  woman, 
and  it  was  not  only  that  of  one  she  knew  but  that  of 
one  whom  she  trusted — a  friend  whose  very  presence 
gave  her  courage.  With  this  recognition  came  a 
110 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

better  understanding  of  the  situation,  and  it  was 
with  a  beaming  eye  and  unclouded  features  that  she 
tripped  up  the  walk  to  meet  the  expectant  figure 
and  outstretched  hand  of  Roger  Upjohn. 

"You  here!"  she  exclaimed,  amid  smiles  and 
blushes,  as  he  drew  her  into  the  hall. 

He  at  once  launched  forth  into  explanations  min- 
gled with  apologies  for  the  presumption  he  had 
shown  in  putting  her  to  this  inconvenience.  There 
was  trouble  in  the  house — great  trouble.  Something 
had  occurred  for  which  an  explanation  must  be 
found  before  morning,  or  the  happiness  and  honour 
of  more  than  one  person  now  under  this  unhappy 
roof  would  be  wrecked.  He  knew  it  was  late — that 
she  had  been  obliged  to  take  a  long  and  dreary  ride 
alone,  but  her  success  with  the  problem  which  had 
once  come  near  wrecking  his  own  life  had  embold- 
ened him  to  telephone  to  the  office  and —  "  But  you 
are  in  ball-dress,"  he  cried  in  amazement.  "Did 
you  think — " 

"I  came  from  a  ball.  Word  reached  me  between 
the  dances.  I  did  not  go  home.  I  had  been  bidden 
to  hurry." 

He  looked  his  appreciation,  but  when  he  spoke  it 
was  to  say: 

"This  is  the  situation.    Miss  Digby — " 

"  The  lady  who  is  to  be  married  to-morrow?  " 

"Who  hopes  to  be  married  to-morrow." 

"How,  hopes?" 

"Who  will  be  married  to-morrow,  if  a  certain 
111 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

article  lost  in  this  house  to-night  can  be  found  before 
any  of  the  persons  who  have  been  dining  here  leave 
for  their  homes." 

Violet  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Then,  Mr.  Cornell— "  she  began. 

"Mr.  Cornell  has  our  utmost  confidence,"  Roger 
hastened  to  interpose.  "But  the  article  missing  is 
one  which  he  might  reasonably  desire  to  possess  and 
which  he  alone  of  all  present  had  the  opportunity 
of  securing.  You  can  therefore  see  why  he,  with  his 
pride — the  pride  of  a  man  not  rich,  engaged  to  marry 
a  woman  who  is — should  declare  that  unless  his  in- 
nocence is  established  before  daybreak,  the  doors  of 
St.  Bartholomew  will  remain  shut  to-morrow." 

"But  the  article  lost— what  is  it?" 

"Miss  Digby  will  give  you  the  particulars.  She 
is  waiting  to  receive  you,"  he  added  with  a  gesture 
towards  a  half-open  door  at  their  right. 

Violet  glanced  that  way,  then  cast  her  looks  up  and 
down  the  hall  in  which  they  stood. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  have  not  told  me  in  whose 
house  I  am?  Not  hers,  I  know.  She  lives  in  the 
city." 

"And  you  are  twelve  miles  from  Harlem.  Miss 
Strange,  you  are  in  the  Van  Broecklyn  mansion, 
famous  enough  you  will  acknowledge.  Have  you 
never  been  here  before?  " 

"  I  have  been  by  here,  but  I  recognized  nothing  in 
the  dark.  What  an  exciting  place  for  an  investiga- 
tion!" 

112 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

"And  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn?  Have  you  never  met 
him?" 

"Once,  when  a  child.    He  frightened  me  then" 

"And  may  frighten  you  now;  though  I  doubt  it. 
Time  has  mellowed  him.  Besides,  I  have  prepared 
him  for  what  might  otherwise  occasion  him  some 
astonishment.  Naturally  he  would  not  look  for  just 
the  sort  of  lady  investigator  I  am  about  to  introduce 
to  him." 

She  smiled.  Violet  Strange  was  a  very  charming 
young  woman,  as  well  as  a  keen  prober  of  odd  mys- 
teries. 

The  meeting  between  herself  and  Miss  Digby  was 
a  sympathetic  one.  After  the  first  inevitable  shock 
which  the  latter  felt  at  sight  of  the  beauty  and  fash- 
ionable appearance  of  the  mysterious  little  being 
who  was  to  solve  her  difficulties,  her  glance,  which 
under  other  circumstances  might  have  lingered  un- 
duly upon  the  piquant  features  and  exquisite  dress- 
ing of  the  fairy-like  figure  before  her,  passed  at  once 
to  Violet's  eyes  in  whose  steady  depths  beamed  an 
intelligence  quite  at  odds  with  the  coquettish  dim- 
ples which  so  often  misled  the  casual  observer  hi  his 
estimation  of  a  character  singularly  subtle  and  well- 
poised. 

As  for  the  impression  she  herself  made  upon  Violet- 
it  was  the  same  she  made  upon  everyone.  No  one 
could  look  long  at  Florence  Digby  and  not  recognize 
the  loftiness  of  her  spirit  and  the  generous  nature  of 
her  impulses.  In  person  she  was  tall,  and  as  she 
113 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

leaned  to  take  Violet's  hand,  the  difference  be- 
tween them  brought  out  the  salient  points  in  each, 
to  the  great  admiration  of  the  one  onlooker. 

Meantime  for  all  her  interest  in  the  case  in  hand, 
Violet  could  not  help  casting  a  hurried  look  about 
her,  in  gratification  of  the  curiosity  incited  by  her 
entrance  into  a  house  signalized  from  its  foundation 
by  such  a  series  of  tragic  events.  The  result  was 
disappointing.  The  walls  were  plain,  the  furniture 
simple.  Nothing  suggestive  in  either,  unless  it  was 
the  fact  that  nothing  was  new,  nothing  modern.  As 
it  looked  in  the  days  of  Burr  and  Hamilton  so  it 
looked  to-day,  even  to  the  rather  startling  detail  of 
candles  which  did  duty  on  every  side  in  place  of  gas. 

As  Violet  recalled  the  reason  for  this  the  fascin- 
ation of  the  past  seized  upon  her  imagination.  There 
was  no  knowing  where  this  might  have  carried  her, 
had  not  the  feverish  gleam  in  Miss  Digby's  eyes 
warned  her  that  the  present  held  its  own  excitement. 
Instantly,  she  was  all  attention  and  listening  with 
undivided  mind  to  that  lady's  disclosures. 

They  were  brief  and  to  the  following  effect: 

The  dinner  which  had  brought  some  half-dozen 
people  together  in  this  house  had  been  given  in  cele- 
bration of  her  impending  marriage.  But  it  was  also 
in  a  way  meant  as  a  compliment  to  one  of  the  other 
guests,  a  Mr.  Spielhagen,  who,  during  the  week,  had 
succeeded  in  demonstrating  to  a  few  experts  the 
value  of  a  discovery  he  had  made  which  would  trans- 
form a  great  industry. 

114 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

In  speaking  of  this  discovery,  Miss  Digby  did  not 
go  into  particulars,  the  whole  matter  being  far 
beyond  her  understanding;  but  in  stating  its  value 
she  openly  acknowledged  that  it  was  in  the  line  of 
Mr.  Cornell's  own  work,  and  one  which  involved 
calculations  and  a  formula  which,  if  prematurely 
disclosed,  would  invalidate  the  contract  Mr.  Spiel- 
hagen  hoped  to  make,  and  thus  destroy  his  present 
hopes. 

Of  this  formula  but  two  copies  existed.  One  was 
locked  up  in  a  safe-deposit  vault  in  Boston,  the  other 
he  had  brought  into  the  house  on  his  person,  and  it 
was  the  latter  which  was  now  missing,  it  having  been 
abstracted  during  the  evening  from  a  manuscript  of 
sixteen  or  more  sheets,  under  circumstances  which 
be  would  now  endeavour  to  relate. 

Mr.  Van  Broecklyn,  their  host,  had  in  his  melan- 
choly life  but  one  interest  which  could  be  called  at 
all  absorbing.  This  was  for  explosives.  As  a  con- 
sequence, much  of  the  talk  at  the  dinner-table  had 
been  on  Mr.  Spielhagen's  discovery,  and  the  possible 
changes  it  might  introduce  into  this  especial  indus- 
try. As  these,  worked  out  from  a  formula  kept 
secret  from  the  trade,  could  not  but  affect  greatly 
Mr.  Cornell's  interests,  she  found  herself  listening 
intently,  when  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn,  with  an  apology 
for  his  interference,  ventured  to  remark  that  if  Mr. 
Spielhagen  had  made  a  valuable  discovery  in  this 
line,  so  had  he,  and  one  which  he  had  substantiated 
by  many  experiments.  It  was  not  a  marketable  one, 
115 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

such  as  Mr.  Spielhagen's  was,  but  in  his  work  upon 
the  same,  and  in  the  tests  which  he  had  been  led  to 
make,  he  had  discovered  certain  instances  he  would 
gladly  name,  which  demanded  exceptional  procedure 
to  be  successful.  If  Mr.  Spielhagen's  method  did 
not  allow  for  these  exceptions,  nor  make  suitable 
provision  for  them,  then  Mr.  Spielhagen's  method 
would  fail  more  times  than  it  would  succeed.  Did 
it  so  allow  and  so  provide?  It  would  relieve  him 
greatly  to  learn  that  it  did. 

The  answer  came  quickly.  Yes,  it  did.  But  later 
and  after  some  further  conversation,  Mr.  Spielha- 
gen's confidence  seemed  to  wane,  and  before  they 
left  the  dinner-table,  he  openly  declared  his  intention 
of  looking  over  his  manuscript  again  that  very  night, 
in  order  to  be  sure  that  the  formula  therein  con- 
tained duly  covered  all  the  exceptions  mentioned  by 
Mr.  Van  Broecklyn. 

If  Mr.  Cornell's  countenance  showed  any  change 
at  this  moment,  she  for  one  had  not  noticed  it;  but 
the  bitterness  with  which  he  remarked  upon  the 
other's  good  fortune  in  having  discovered  this  for- 
mula of  whose  entire  success  he  had  no  doubt,  was 
apparent  to  everybody,  and  naturally  gave  point  to 
the  circumstances  which  a  short  time  afterward 
associated  him  with  the  disappearance  of  the  same. 

The  ladies  (there  were  two  others  besides  herself) 

having  withdrawn  in  a  body  to  the  music-room,  the 

gentlemen  all  proceeded  to  the  library  to  smoke. 

Here,  conversation  loosed  from  the  one  topic  which 

116 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

had  hitherto  engrossed  it,  was  proceeding  briskly, 
when  Mr.  Spielhagen,  with  a  nervous  gesture,  im- 
pulsively looked  about  him  and  said: 

"I  cannot  rest  till  I  have  run  through  my  thesis 
again.  Where  can  I  find  a  quiet  spot?  I  won't  be 
long;  I  read  very  rapidly." 

It  was  for  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  to  answer,  but  no 
word  coming  from  him,  every  eye  turned  his  way, 
only  to  find  him  sunk  in  one  of  those  fits  of  abstrac- 
tion so  well  known  to  his  friends,  and  from  which  no 
one  who  has  this  strange  man's  peace  of  mind  at 
heart  ever  presumes  to  rouse  him. 

What  was  to  be  done?  These  moods  of  their  sin- 
gular host  sometimes  lasted  half  an  hour,  and  Mr. 
Spielhagen  had  not  the  appearance  of  a  man  of 
patience.  Indeed  he  presently  gave  proof  of  the 
great  uneasiness  he  was  labouring  under,  for  noticing 
a  door  standing  ajar  on  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
he  remarked  to  those  around  him: 

"A  den!  and  lighted!  Do  you  see  any  objection 
to  my  shutting  myself  in  there  for  a  few  minutes?  " 

No  one  venturing  to  reply,  he  rose,  and  giving  a 
slight  push  to  the  door,  disclosed  a  small  room  ex- 
quisitely panelled  and  brightly  lighted,  but  without 
one  article  of  furniture  in  it,  not  even  a  chair. 

"The  very  place,"  quoth  Mr.  Spielhagen,  and  lift- 
ing a  light  cane-bottomed  chair  from  the  many 
standing  about,  he  carried  it  inside  and  shut  the  door 
behind  him- 

Several  minutes  passed  during  which  the  man 
117 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

who  had  served  at  table  entered  with  a  tray  on  which 
were  several  small  glasses  evidently  containing  some 
choice  liqueur.  Finding  his  master  fixed  in  one  of 
his  strange  moods,  he  set  the  tray  down  and,  point- 
ing to  one  of  the  glasses,  said: 

"That  is  for  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn.  It  contains  his 
usual  quieting  powder."  And  urging  the  gentlemen 
to  help  themselves,  he  quietly  left  the  room. 

Mr.  Upjohn  lifted  the  glass  nearest  him,  and  Mr. 
Cornell  seemed  about  to  do  the  same  when  he  sud- 
denly reached  forward  and  catching  up  one  farther 
off  started  for  the  room  in  which  Mr.  Spielhagen 
had  so  deliberately  secluded  himself. 

Why  he  did  all  this — why,  above  all  things,  he 
should  reach  across  the  tray  for  a  glass  instead  of 
taking  the  one  under  his  hand,  he  can  no  more  ex- 
plain than  why  he  has  followed  many  another  un- 
happy impulse.  Nor  did  he  understand  the  nervous 
start  given  by  Mr.  Spielhagen  at  his  entrance,  or 
the  stare  with  which  that  gentleman  took  the  glass 
from  his  hand  and  mechanically  drank  its  contents, 
till  he  saw  how  his  hand  had  stretched  itself  across 
the  sheet  of  paper  he  was  reading,  in  an  open  attempt 
to  hide  the  lines  visible  between  his  fingers.  Then 
indeed  the  intruder  flushed  and  withdrew  in  great 
embarrassment,  fully  conscious  of  his  indiscretion 
but  not  deeply  disturbed  till  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn, 
suddenly  arousing  and  glancing  down  at  the  tray 
placed  very  near  his  hand,  remarked  in  some  sur- 
prise: "Dobbs  seems  to  have  forgotten  me."  Then 
118 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

indeed,  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Cornell  realized  what 
he  had  done.  It  was  the  glass  intended  for  his  host 
which  he  had  caught  up  and  carried  into  the  other 
room — the  glass  which  he  had  been  told  contained  a 
drug.  Of  what  folly  he  had  been  guilty,  and  how 
tame  would  be  any  effort  at  excuse! 

Attempting  none,  he  rose  and  with  a  hurried 
glance  at  Mr.  Upjohn  who  flushed  in  sympathy  at 
his  distress,  he  crossed  to  the  door  he  had  so  lately 
closed  upon  Mr.  Spielhagen.  But  feeling  his  shoul- 
der touched  as  his  hand  pressed  the  knob,  he  turned 
to  meet  the  eye  of  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  fixed  upon 
him  with  an  expression  which  utterly  confounded 
him. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  that  gentleman  asked. 

The  questioning  tone,  the  severe  look,  expressive 
at  once  of  displeasure  and  astonishment,  were  most 
disconcerting,  but  Mr.  Cornell  managed  to  stammer 
forth: 

"Mr.  Spielhagen  is  in  here  consulting  his  thesis. 
When  your  man  brought  in  the  cordial,  I  was  awk- 
ward enough  to  catch  up  your  glass  and  carry  it  in 
to  Mr.  Spielhagen.  He  drank  it  and  I — I  am  anxious 
to  see  if  it  did  him  any  harm." 

As  he  uttered  the  last  word  he  felt  Mr.  Van 
Broecklyn's  hand  slip  from  his  shoulder,  but  no 
word  accompanied  the  action,  nor  did  his  host  make 
the  least  move  to  follow  him  into  the  room. 

This  was  a  matter  of  great  regret  to  him  later,  as 
it  left  him  for  a  moment  out  of  the  range  of  every 
119 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

eye,  during  which  he  says  he  simply  stood  in  a  state 
of  shock  at  seeing  Mr.  Spielhagen  still  sitting  there, 
manuscript  in  hand,  but  with  head  fallen  forward 
and  eyes  closed;  dead,  asleep  or — he  hardly  knew 
what;  the  sight  so  paralyzed  him. 

Whether  or  not  this  was  the  exact  truth  and  the 
whole  truth,  Mr.  Cornell  certainly  looked  very  un- 
like himself  as  he  stepped  back  into  Mr.  Van  Broeck- 
lyn's  presence;  and  he  was  only  partially  reassured 
when  that  gentleman  protested  that  there  was  no 
real  harm  in  the  drug,  and  that  Mr.  Spielhagen 
would  be  all  right  if  left  to  wake  naturally  and  with- 
out shock.  However,  as  his  present  attitude  was 
one  of  great  discomfort,  they  decided  to  carry  him 
back  and  lay  him  on  the  library  lounge.  But  before 
doing  this,  Mr.  Upjohn  drew  from  his  flaccid  grasp 
the  precious  manuscript,  and  carrying  it  into  the 
larger  room  placed  it  on  a  remote  table,  where  it 
remained  undisturbed  till  Mr.  Spielhagen,  suddenly 
coming  to  himself  at  the  end  of  some  fifteen  minutes, 
missed  the  sheets  from  his  hand,  and  bounding  up, 
crossed  the  room  to  repossess  himself  of  them. 

His  face,  as  he  lifted  them  up  and  rapidly  ran 
through  them  with  ever-accumulating  anxiety,  told 
them  what  they  had  to  expect. 

The  page  containing  the  formula  was  gone! 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

Violet  now  saw  her  problem 
120 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

n 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  loss  I  have  men- 
tioned; all  could  see  that  page  13  was  not  there.  In 
vain  a  second  handling  of  every  sheet,  the  one  so 
numbered  was  not  to  be  found.  Page  14  met  the 
eye  on  the  top  of  the  pile,  and  page  12  finished  it  off 
at  the  bottom,  but  no  page  13  in  between,  or  any- 
where else. 

Where  had  it  vanished,  and  through  whose  agency 
had  this  misadventure  occurred?  No  one  could  say, 
or,  at  least,  no  one  there  made  any  attempt  to  do  so, 
though  everybody  started  to  look  for  it. 

But  where  look?  The  adjoining  small  room  of- 
fered no  facilities  for  hiding  a  cigar-end,  much  less 
a  square  of  shining  white  paper.  Bare  walls,  a  bare 
floor,  and  a  single  chair  for  furniture,  comprised  all 
that  was  to  be  seen  in  this  direction.  Nor  could  the 
room  in  which  they  then  stood  be  thought  to  hold 
it,  unless  it  was  on  the  person  of  some  one  of  them. 
Could  this  be  the  explanation  of  the  mystery?  No 
man  looked  his  doubts;  but  Mr.  Cornell,  possibly 
divining  the  general  feeling,  stepped  up  to  Mr.  Van 
Broecklyn  and  in  a  cool  voice,  but  with  the  red 
burning  hotly  on  either  cheek,  said  so  as  to  be  heard 
by  everyone  present: 

"I  demand  to  be  searched — at  once  and  thor- 
oughly." 

A  moment's  silence,  then  the  common  cry: 

"We  will  all  be  searched." 
121 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Is  Mr.  Spielhagen  sure  that  the  missing  page 
was  with  the  others  when  he  sat  down  in  the  ad- 
joining room  to  read  his  thesis?"  asked  their  per- 
turbed host. 

"Very  sure,"  came  the  emphatic  reply.  "Indeed, 
I  was  just  going  through  the  formula  itself  when  I 
fell  asleep." 

"You  are  ready  to  assert  this?" 

"I  am  ready  to  swear  it." 

Mr.  Cornell  repeated  his  request. 

"I  demand  that  you  make  a  thorough  search  of 
my  person.  I  must  be  cleared,  and  instantly,  of 
every  suspicion,"  he  gravely  asserted,  "or  how  can  I 
marry  Miss  Digby  to-morrow?  " 

After  that  there  was  no  further  hesitation.  One 
and  all  subjected  themselves  to  the  ordeal  sug- 
gested; even  Mr.  Spielhagen.  But  this  effort  was  as 
futile  as  the  rest.  The  lost  page  was  not  found. 

What  were  they  to  think?   What  were  they  to  do? 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  left  to  do,  and  yet 
some  further  attempt  must  be  made  towards  the 
recovery  of  this  important  formula.  Mr.  Cornell's 
marriage  and  Mr.  Spielhagen's  business  success  both 
depended  upon  its  being  in  the  latter's  hands  before 
six  in  the  morning,  when  he  was  engaged  to  hand  it 
over  again  to  a  certain  manufacturer  sailing  for 
Europe  on  an  early  steamer. 

Five  hours! 

Had  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  a  suggestion  to  offer? 
No,  he  was  as  much  at  sea  as  the  rest. 
122 


Missing:  Page  Thirteen 

Simultaneously  look  crossed  look.  Blankness  was 
on  every  face. 

"Let  us  call  the  ladies,"  suggested  one. 

It  was  done,  and  however  great  the  tension  had 
been  before,  it  was  even  greater  when  Miss  Digby 
stepped  upon  the  scene.  But  she  was  not  a  woman 
to  be  shaken  from  her  poise  even  by  a  crisis  of  this 
importance.  When  the  dilemma  had  been  presented 
to  her  and  the  full  situation  grasped,  she  looked  first 
at  Mr.  Cornell  and  then  at  Mr.  Spielhagen,  and 
quietly  said: 

"There  is  but  one  explanation  possible  of  this 
matter.  Mr.  Spielhagen  will  excuse  me,  but  he  is 
evidently  mistaken  in  thinking  that  he  saw  the  lost 
page  among  the  rest.  The  condition  into  which  he 
was  thrown  by  the  unaccustomed  drug  he  had  drank, 
made  him  liable  to  hallucinations.  I  have  not  the 
least  doubt  he  thought  he  had  been  studying  the 
formula  at  the  time  he  dropped  off  to  sleep.  I  have 
every  confidence  in  the  gentleman's  candour.  But 
so  have  I  in  that  of  Mr.  Cornell,"  she  supplemented, 
with  a  smile. 

An  exclamation  from  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  and  a 
subdued  murmur  from  all  but  Mr.  Spielhagen  testi- 
fied to  the  effect  of  this  suggestion,  and  there  is  no 
saying  what  might  have  been  the  result  if  Mr.  Cor- 
nell had  not  hurriedly  put  in  this  extraordinary  and 
most  unexpected  protest: 

"Miss  Digby  has  my  gratitude,"  said  he,  "for  a 
confidence  which  I  hope  to  prove  to  be  deserved. 
123 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

But  I  must  say  this  for  Mr.  Spielhagen.  He  was  cor- 
rect in  stating  that  he  was  engaged  in  looking  over 
his  formula  when  I  stepped  into  his  presence  with 
the  glass  of  cordial.  If  you  were  not  in  a  position 
to  see  the  hurried  way  in  which  his  hand  instinctively 
spread  itself  over  the  page  he  was  reading,  I  was; 
and  if  that  does  not  seem  conclusive  to  you,  then  I 
feel  bound  to  state  that  in  unconsciously  following 
this  movement  of  his,  I  plainly  saw  the  number 
written  on  the  top  of  the  page,  and  that  number 
was — 13." 

A  loud  exclamation,  this  time  from  Spielhagen 
himself,  announced  his  gratitude  and  corresponding 
change  of  attitude  toward  the  speaker. 

"Wherever  that  damned  page  has  gone,"  he  pro- 
tested, advancing  towards  Cornell  with  outstretched 
hand,  "you  have  nothing  to  do  with  its  disappear- 
ance." 

Instantly  all  constraint  fled,  and  every  counte- 
nance took  on  a  relieved  expression.  But  the  problem 
remained. 

Suddenly  those  very  words  passed  someone's 
lips,  and  with  their  utterance  Mr.  Upjohn  remem- 
bered how  at  an  extraordinary  crisis  in  his  own  life, 
he  had  been  helped  and  an  equally  difficult  problem 
settled,  by  a  little  lady  secretly  attached  to  a  pri- 
vate detective  agency.  If  she  could  only  be  found 
and  hurried  here  before  morning,  all  might  yet  be 
well.  He  would  make  the  effort.  Such  wild  schemes 
sometimes  work.  He  telephoned  to  the  office  and — 
124 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

Was  there  anything  else  Miss  Strange  would  like 
to  know? 

ra 

Miss  Strange,  thus  appealed  to,  asked  where  the 
gentlemen  were  now. 

She  was  told  that  they  were  still  all  together  in 
the  library;  the  ladies  had  been  sent  home. 

"Then  let  us  go  to  them,"  said  Violet,  hiding 
under  a  smile  her  great  fear  that  here  was  an  affair 
which  might  very  easily  spell  for  her  that  dismal 


So  great  was  that  fear  that  under  all  ordinary 
circumstances  she  would  have  had  no  thought  for 
anything  else  in  the  short  interim  between  this 
stating  of  the  problem  and  her  speedy  entrance 
among  the  persons  involved.  But  the  circum- 
stances of  this  case  were  so  far  from  ordinary,  or 
rather  let  me  put  it  in  this  way,  the  setting  of  the 
case  was  so  very  extraordinary,  that  she  scarcely 
thought  of  the  problem  before  her,  in  her  great 
interest  in  the  house  through  whose  rambling  halls 
she  was  being  so  carefully  guided.  So  much  that 
was  tragic  and  heartrending  had  occurred  here. 
The  Van  Broecklyn  name,  the  Van  Broecklyn 
history,  above  all  the  Van  Broecklyn  tradition, 
which  made  the  house  unique  in  the  country's  annals, 
all  made  an  appeal  to  her  imagination,  and  cen- 
tred her  thoughts  on  what  she  saw  about  her. 
There  was  a  door  which  no  man  ever  opened  —  had 
125 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

never  opened  since  Revolutionary  times — should 
she  see  it?  Should  she  know  it  if  she  did  see  it? 
Then  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  himself!  Just  to  meet 
hun,  under  any  conditions  and  in  any  place,  was 
an  event.  But  to  meet  him  here,  under  the  pall  of 
his  own  mystery!  No  wonder  she  had  no  words  for 
her  companions,  or  that  her  thoughts  clung  to 
this  anticipation  in  wonder  and  almost  fearsome 
delight. 

His  story  was  a  well-known  one.  A  bachelor 
and  a  misanthrope,  he  lived  absolutely  alone  save 
for  a  large  entourage  of  servants,  all  men  and  elderly 
ones  at  that.  He  never  visited.  Though  he  now 
and  then,  as  on  this  occasion,  entertained  certain 
persons  under  his  roof,  he  declined  every  invitation 
for  himself,  avoiding  even,  with  equal  strictness,  all 
evening  amusements  of  whatever  kind,  which  would 
detain  him  in  the  city  after  ten  at  night.  Perhaps 
this  was  to  ensure  no  break  in  his  rule  of  life  never 
to  sleep  out  of  his  own  bed.  Though  he  was  a  man 
well  over  fifty  he  had  not  spent,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  but  two  nights  out  of  his  own  bed  since 
his  return  from  Europe  in  early  boyhood,  and  those 
were  in  obedience  to  a  judicial  summons  which  took 
him  to  Boston. 

This  was  his  main  eccentricity,  but  he  had  an- 
other which  is  apparent  enough  from  what  has 
already  been  said.  He  avoided  women.  If  thrown 
in  with  them  during  his  short  visits  into  town,  he 
was  invariably  polite  and  at  all  times  companionable, 
126 


Missing:  Page  Thirteen 

but  he  never  sought  them  out,  nor  had 
contrary  to  its  usual  habit,  ever  linked  his  name 
with  one  of  the  sex. 

Yet  he  was  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  attrac- 
tion. His  features  were  fine  and  his  figure  impres- 
sive. He  might  have  been  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes 
had  he  chosen  to  enter  crowded  drawing-rooms, 
or  even  to  frequent  public  assemblages,  but 
having  turned  his  back  upon  everything  of  the 
kind  in  his  youth,  he  had  found  it  impossible 
to  alter  his  habits  with  advancing  years;  nor 
was  he  now  expected  to.  The  position  he  had 
taken  was  respected.  Leonard  Van  Broecklyn 
was  no  longer  criticized. 

Was  there  any  explanation  for  this  strangely 
self-centred  life?  Those  who  knew  him  best  seemed 
to  think  so.  In  the  first  place  he  had  sprung  from 
an  unfortunate  stock.  Events  of  an  unusual  and 
tragic  nature  had  marked  the  family  of  both  parents. 
Nor  had  his  parents  themselves  been  exempt  from 
this  seeming  fatality.  Antagonistic  in  tastes  and 
temperament,  they  had  dragged  on  an  unhappy 
existence  in  the  old  home,  till  both  natures  rebelled, 
and  a  separation  ensued  which  not  only  disunited 
their  lives  but  sent  them  to  opposite  sides  of  the  globe 
never  to  return  again.  At  least,  that  was  the  in- 
ference drawn  from  the  peculiar  circumstances 
attending  the  event.  On  the  morning  of  one  never- 
to-be-forgotten  day,  John  Van  Broecklyn,  the  grand- 
father of  the  present  representative  of  the  family, 
127  ' 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

found  the  following  note  from  his  son  lying  on  the 
library  table: 

"FATHEB: 

"Life  in  this  house,  or  any  house,  with  her  is  no 
longer  endurable.  One  of  us  must  go.  The  mother 
should  not  be  separated  from  her  child.  Therefore 
it  is  I  whom  you  will  never  see  again.  Forget  me, 
but  be  considerate  of  her  and  the  boy. 

"WILLIAM." 

Six  hours  later  another  note  was  found,  this  time 
from  the  wife: 

"FATHER: 

"Tied  to  a  rotting  corpse  what  does  one  do?  Lop 
off  one's  arm  if  necessary  to  rid  one  of  the  contact. 
As  all  love  between  your  son  and  myself  is  dead,  I 
can  no  longer  live  within  the  sound  of  his  voice. 
As  this  is  his  home,  he  is  the  one  to  remain  in  it. 
May  our  child  reap  the  benefit  of  his  mother's  loss 
and  his  father's  affection. 

"RHODA." 

Both  were  gone,  and  gone  forever.  Simultaneous 
in  their  departure,  they  preserved  each  his  own 
silence  and  sent  no  word  back.  If  the  one  went 
East  and  the  other  West,  they  may  have  met  on  the 
other  side  of  the  globe,  but  never  again  in  the  home 
which  sheltered  their  boy.  For  him  and  for  his 
128 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

grandfather  they  had  sunk  from  sight  in  the  great 
sea  of  humanity,  leaving  them  stranded  on  an 
isolated  and  mournful  shore.  The  grandfather 
steeled  himself  to  the  double  loss,  for  the  child's 
sake;  but  the  boy  of  eleven  succumbed.  Few  of  the 
world's  great  sufferers,  of  whatever  age  or  condition, 
have  mourned  as  this  child  mourned,  or  shown  the 
effects  of  his  grief  so  deeply  or  so  long.  Not  till  he 
had  passed  his  majority  did  the  line,  carved  in  one 
day  in  his  baby  forehead,  lose  any  of  its  intensity; 
and  there  are  those  who  declare  that  even  later  than 
that,  the  midnight  stillness  of  the  house  was  dis- 
turbed from  time  to  time  by  his  muffled  shriek  of 
' '  Mother !  Mother ! ' '  sending  the  servants  from  the 
house,  and  adding  one  more  horror  to  the  many 
which  clung  about  this  accursed  mansion. 

Of  this  cry  Violet  had  heard,  and  it  was  that  and 
the  door —  But  I  have  already  told  you  about  the 
door  which  she  was  still  looking  for,  when  her  two 
companions  suddenly  halted,  and  she  found  herself 
on  the  threshold  of  the  library,  in  full  view  of  Mr. 
Van  Broecklyn  and  his  two  guests. 

Slight  and  fairy-like  in  figure,  with  an  air  of 
modest  reserve  more  in  keeping  with  her  youth 
and  dainty  dimpling  beauty  than  with  her  errand, 
her  appearance  produced  an  astonishment  which 
none  of  the  gentlemen  were  able  to  disguise.  This 
the  clever  detective,  with  a  genius  for  social  prob- 
lems and  odd  elusive  cases!  This  darling  of  the 
ball-room  in  satin  and  pearls!  Mr.  Spielhagen 
129 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

glanced  at  Mr.  Carroll,  and  Mr.  Carroll  at  Mr. 
Spielhagen,  and  both  at  Mr.  Upjohn,  in  very  evi- 
dent distrust.  As  for  Violet,  she  had  eyes  only 
for  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  who  stood  before  her  in  a 
surprise  equal  to  that  of  the  others  but  with  more 
restraint  in  its  expression. 

She  was  not  disappointed  in  him.  She  had 
expected  to  see  a  man,  reserved  almost  to  the  point 
of  austerity.  And  she  found  his  first  look  even  more 
awe-compelling  than  her  imagination  had  pictured; 
so  much  so  indeed,  that  her  resolution  faltered,  and 
she  took  a  quick  step  backward;  which  seeing,  he 
smiled  and  her  heart  and  hopes  grew  warm  again. 
That  he  could  smile,  and  smile  with  absolute  sweet- 
ness, was  her  great  comfort  when  later —  But  I  am 
introducing  you  too  hurriedly  to  the  catastrophe. 
There  is  much  to  be  told  first. 

I  pass  over  the  preliminaries,  and  come  at  once 
to  the  moment  when  Violet,  having  listened  to  a 
repetition  of  the  full  facts,  stood  w:th  downcast 
eyes  before  these  gentlemen,  complaining  in  some 
alarm  to  herself: 

"They  expect  me  to  tell  them  now  and  without 
further  search  or  parley  just  where  this  missing  page 
is.  I  shall  have  to  balk  that  expectation  without 
losing  their  confidence.  But  how?" 

Summoning  up  her  courage  and  meeting  each 
inquiring  eye  with  a  look  which  seemed  to  carry  a 
different  message  to  each,  she  remarked  very  quietly: 

"This  is  not  a  matter  to  guess  at.    I  must  have 
130 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

time  and  I  must  look  a  little  deeper  into  the  facts 
just  given  me.  I  presume  that  the  table  I  see  over 
there  is  the  one  upon  which  Mr.  Upjohn  laid  the 
manuscript  during  Mr.  Spielhagen's  unconscious- 
ness." 

All  nodded. 

"Is  it — I  mean  the  table — in  the  same  condition 
it  was  then?  Has  nothing  been  taken  from  it  except 
the  manuscript?  " 

"Nothing." 

"Then  the  missing  page  is  not  there,"  she  smiled, 
pointing  to  its  bare  top.  A  pause,  during  which 
she  stood  with  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  floor  before  her. 
She  was  thinking  and  thinking  hard. 

Suddenly  she  came  to  a  decision.  Addressing 
Mr.  Upjohn  she  asked  if  he  were  quite  sure  that 
in  taking  the  manuscript  from  Mr.  Spielhagen's 
hand  he  had  neither  disarranged  nor  dropped  one 
of  its  pages. 

The  answer  was  unequivocal. 

"Then,"  she  declared,  with  quiet  assurance  and 
a  steady  meeting  with  her  own  of  every  eye,  "as  the 
thirteenth  page  was  not  found  among  the  others 
when  they  were  taken  from  this  table,  nor  on  the 
persons  of  either  Mr.  Carroll  or  Mr.  Spielhagen,  it  is 
still  in  that  inner  room." 

"Impossible!"  came  from  every  lip,  each  in  a 
different  tone.  "That  room  is  absolutely  empty." 

"May  I  have  a  look  at  its  emptiness?"  she  asked, 
with  a  naive  glance  at  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn. 
131 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"There  is  positively  nothing  in  the  room  but  the 
chair  Mr.  Spielhagen  sat  on,"  objected  that  gentle- 
man with  a  noticeable  air  of  reluctance. 

"Still,  may  I  not  have  a  look  at  it?"  she  per- 
sisted,  with  that  disarming  smile  she  kept  for  great 
occasions. 

Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  bowed.  He  could  not  refuse 
a  request  so  urged,  but  his  step  was  slow  and  his 
manner  next  to  ungracious  as  he  led  the  way  to 
the  door  of  the  adjoining  room  and  threw  it  open. 

Just  what  she  had  been  told  to  expect!  Bare 
walls  and  floors  and  an  empty  chair!  Yet  she  did 
not  instantly  withdraw,  but  stood  silently  con- 
templating the  panelled  wainscoting  surrounding 
her,  as  though  she  suspected  it  of  containing  some 
secret  hiding-place  not  apparent  to  the  eye. 

Mr.  Van  Broecklyn,  noting  this,  hastened  to 
say: 

"The  walls  are  sound,  Miss  Strange  They 
contain  no  hidden  cupboards." 

"And  that  door?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  a  por- 
tion of  the  wainscoting  so  exactly  like  the  rest  that 
only  the  most  experienced  eye  could  detect  the  line 
of  deeper  colour  which  marked  an  opening. 

For  an  instant  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  stood  rigid, 
then  the  immovable  pallor,  which  was  one  of  his 
chief  characteristics,  gave  way  to  a  deep  flush,  as  he 
explained: 

"There  was  a  door  there  once;  but  it  has  been 
permanently  closed.  With  cement, "  he  forced  hinv- 
132 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

self  to  add,  his  countenance  losing  its  evanescent 
colour  till  it  shone  ghastly  again  in  the  strong  light. 

With  difficulty  Violet  preserved  her  show  of 
composure.  " The  door!"  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"I  have  found  it.  The  great  historic  door!"  But 
her  tone  was  light  as  she  ventured  to  say: 

"Then  it  can  no  longer  be  opened  by  your  hand 
or  any  other?" 

"It  could  not  be  opened  with  an  axe." 

Violet  sighed  in  the  midst  of  her  triumph.  Her 
curiosity  had  been  satisfied,  but  the  problem  she 
had  been  set  to  solve  looked  inexplicable.  But 
she  was  not  one  to  yield  easily  to  discouragement. 
Marking  the  disappointment  approaching  to  disdain 
in  every  eye  but  Mr.  Upjohn's,  she  drew  herself  up — 
(she  had  not  far  to  draw)  and  made  this  final 
proposal. 

"A  sheet  of  paper,"  she  remarked,  "of  the  size 
of  this  one  cannot  be  spirited  away,  or  dissolved 
into  thin  air.  It  exists;  it  is  here;  and  all  we  want 
is  some  happy  thought  in  order  to  find  it.  I  ac- 
knowledge that  that  happy  thought  has  not  come 
to  me  yet,  but  sometimes  I  get  it  in  what  may  seem 
to  you  a  very  odd  way.  Forgetting  myself,  I  try 
to  assume  the  individuality  of  the  person  who  has 
worked  the  mystery.  If  I  can  think  with  his 
thoughts,  I  possibly  may  follow  him  in  his  actions. 
In  this  case  I  should  like  to  make  believe  for  a  few 
moments  that  I  am  Mr.  Spielhagen"  (with  what 
a  delicious  smile  she  said  this).  "I  should  like  to 
133 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

hold  his  thesis  in  my  hand  and  be  interrupted  in 
my  reading  by  Mr.  Cornell  offering  his  glass  of 
cordial;  then  I  should  like  to  nod  and  slip  off  mentally 
into  a  deep  sleep.  Possibly  in  that  sleep  the  dream 
may  come  which  will  clarify  the  whole  situation. 
Will  you  humour  me  so  far?  " 

A  ridiculous  concession,  but  finally  she  had  her 
way;  the  farce  was  enacted  and  they  left  her  as 
she  had  requested  them  to  do,  alone  with  her  dreams 
in  the  small  room. 

Suddenly  they  heard  her  cry  out,  and  in  another 
moment  she  appeared  before  them,  the  picture  of 
excitement. 

"Is  this  chair  standing  exactly  as  it  did  when 
Mr.  Spielhagen  occupied  it?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Upjohn,  "it  faced  the  other 
way." 

She  stepped  back  and  twirled  the  chair  about 
with  her  disengaged  hand. 

"So?" 

Mr.  Upjohn  and  Mr.  Spielhagen  both  nodded, 
so  did  the  others  when  she  glanced  at  them. 

With  a  sign  of  ill-concealed  satisfaction,  she  drew 
their  attention  to  herself;  then  eagerly  cried: 

"Gentlemen,  look  here!" 

Seating  herself,  she  allowed  her  whole  body  to 
relax  till  she  presented  the  picture  of  one  calmly 
asleep.  Then,  as  they  continued  to  gaze  at  her 
with  fascinated  eyes,  not  knowing  what  to  expect, 
they  saw  something  white  escape  from  her  lap  and 
134 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

slide  across  the  floor  till  it  touched  and  was  stayed 
by  the  wainscot.  It  was  the  top  page  of  the  manu- 
script she  held,  and  as  some  inkling  of  the  truth 
reached  their  astonished  minds,  she  sprang  impetu- 
ously to  her  feet  and,  pointing  to  the  fallen  sheet, 
cried: 

"Do  you  understand  now?  Look  where  it  lies, 
and  then  look  here!" 

She  had  bounded  toward  the  wall  and  was  now 
on  her  knees  pointing  to  the  bottom  of  the  wainscot, 
just  a  few  inches  to  the  left  of  the  fallen  page. 

"A  crack!"  she  cried,  "under  what  was  once  the 
door.  It's  a  very  thin  one,  hardly  perceptible  to 
the  eye.  But  see!"  Here  she  laid  her  finger  on 
the  fallen  paper  and  drawing  it  towards  her,  pushed 
it  carefully  against  the  lower  edge  of  the  wainscot. 
Half  of  it  at  once  disappeared. 

"I  could  easily  slip  it  all  through,"  she  assured 
them,  withdrawing  the  sheet  and  leaping  to  her 
feet  in  triumph.  "You  know  now  where  the  miss- 
ing page  lies,  Mr.  Spielhagen.  All  that  remains 
is  for  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  to  get  it  for  you." 

IV 

The  cries  of  mingled  astonishment  and  relief 
which  greeted  this  simple  elucidation  of  the  mystery 
were  broken  by  a  curiously  choked,  almost  un- 
intelligible, cry.  It  came  from  the  man  thus  ap- 
pealed to,  who,  unnoticed  by  them  all,  had  started 
at  her  first  word  and  gradually,  as  action  followed 
135 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

action,  withdrawn  himself  till  he  now  stood  alone 
and  in  an  attitude  almost  of  defiance  behind  the 
large  table  in  the  centre  of  the  library. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  began,  with  a  bnisqueness 
which  gradually  toned  down  into  a  forced  urbanity 
as  he  beheld  every  eye  fixed  upon  him  in  amazement, 
"that  circumstances  forbid  my  being  of  assistance 
to  you  in  this  unfortunate  matter.  If  the  paper  lies 
where  you  say,  and  I  see  no  other  explanation  of  its 
loss,  I  am  afraid  it  will  have  to  remain  there  for  this 
night  at  least.  The  cement  in  which  that  door  is 
embedded  is  thick  as  any  wall;  it  would  take  men 
with  pickaxes,  possibly  with  dynamite,  to  make  a 
breach  there  wide  enough  for  anyone  to  reach  in. 
And  we  are  far  from  any  such  help." 

In  the  midst  of  the  consternation  caused  by  these 
words,  the  clock  on  the  mantel  behind  his  back 
rang  out  the  hour.  It  was  but  a  double  stroke, 
but  that  meant  two  hours  after  midnight  and  had 
the  effect  of  a  knell  in  the  hearts  of  those  most 
interested. 

"But  I  am  expected  to  give  that  formula  into 
the  hands  of  our  manager  before  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  The  steamer  sails  at  a  quarter  after." 

"  Can't  you  reproduce  a  copy  of  it  from  memory?  " 
someone  asked;  "and  insert  it  in  its  proper  place 
among  the  pages  you  hold  there?" 

"  The  paper  would  not  be  the  same.  That  would 
lead  to  questions  and  the  truth  would  come  out. 
As  the  chief  value  of  the  process  contained  in  that 
136 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

formula  lies  in  its  secrecy,  no  explanation  I  could 
give  would  relieve  me  from  the  suspicions  which  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  existence  of  a  third  copy, 
however  well  hidden,  would  entail.  I  should  lose 
my  great  opportunity." 

Mr.  Cornell's  state  of  mind  can  be  imagined. 
In  an  access  of  mingled  regret  and  despair,  he  cast 
a  glance  at  Violet,  who,  with  a  nod  of  understanding, 
left  the  little  room  in  which  they  still  stood,  and 
approached  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn. 

Lifting  up  her  head, — for  he  was  very  tall, — and 
instinctively  rising  on  her  toes  the  nearer  to  reach 
his  ear,  she  asked  in  a  cautious  whisper: 

"Is  there  no  other  way  of  reaching  that  place?" 

She  acknowledged  afterwards,  that  for  one  mo- 
ment her  heart  stood  still  from  fear,  such  a  change 
took  place  in  his  face,  though  she  says  he  did  not 
move  a  muscle.  Then,  just  when  she  was  expecting 
from  him  some  harsh  or  forbidding  word,  he  wheeled 
abruptly  away  from  her  and  crossing  to  a  window 
at  his  side,  lifted  the  shade  and  looked  out.  When 
he  returned,  he  was  his  usual  self  so  far  as  she  could 
see. 

"There  is  a  way,"  he  now  confided  to  her  in  a 
tone  as  low  as  her  own,  "but  it  can  only  be  taken 
by  a  child." 

"Not  by  me?"  she  asked,  smiling  down  at  her 
own  childish  proportions. 

For  an  instant  he  seemed  taken  aback,  then 
she  saw  his  hand  begin  to  tremble  and  his  lips  twitch. 
137 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Somehow — she  knew  not  why — she  began  to  pity 
him,  and  asked  herself  as  she  felt  rather  than  saw 
the  struggle  in  his  mind,  that  here  was  a  trouble 
which  if  once  understood  would  greatly  dwarf  that 
of  the  two  men  in  the  room  behind  them. 

"I  am  discreet,"  she  whisperingly  declared. 
"I  have  heard  the  history  of  that  door — how  it  was 
against  the  tradition  of  the  family  to  have  it  opened. 
There  must  have  been  some  very  dreadful  reason. 
But  old  superstitions  do  not  affect  me,  and  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  take  the  way  you  mention,  I  will 
follow  your  bidding  exactly,  and  will  not  trouble  my- 
self about  anything  but  the  recovery  of  this  paper, 
which  must  lie  only  a  little  way  inside  that  blocked- 
up  door." 

Was  his  look  one  of  rebuke  at  her  presumption, 
or  just  the  constrained  expression  of  a  perturbed 
mind?  Probably,  the  latter,  for  while  she  watched 
him  for  some  understanding  of  his  mood,  he  reached 
out  his  hand  and  touched  one  of  the  satin  folds 
crossing  her  shoulder. 

"You  would  soil  this  irretrievably,"  said  he. 

"There  is  stuff  in  the  stores  for  another,"  she 
smiled.  Slowly  his  touch  deepened  into  pressure. 
Watching  him  she  saw  the  crust  of  some  old  fear 
or  dominant  superstition  melt  under  her  eyes,  and 
was  quite  prepared,  when  he  remarked,  with  what 
for  him  was  a  lightsome  air: 

"I  will  buy  the  stuff,  if  you  will  dare  the  darkness 
and  intricacies  of  our  old  cellar.  I  can  give  you  no 
138 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

light.  You  will  have  to  feel  your  way  according  to 
my  direction." 

"I  am  ready  to  dare  anything." 

He  left  her  abruptly. 

"I  will  warn  Miss  Digby,"  he  called  back.  "She 
shall  go  with  you  as  far  as  the  cellar." 


Violet  in  her  short  career  as  an  investigator  of 
mysteries  had  been  in  many  a  situation  calling  for 
more  than  womanly  nerve  and  courage.  But  never 
— or  so  it  seemed  to  her  at  the  time — had  she  ex- 
perienced a  greater  depression  of  spirit  than  when 
she  stood  with  Miss  Digby  before  a  small  door  at 
the  extreme  end  of  the  cellar,  and  understood  that 
here  was  her  road — a  road  which  once  entered,  she 
must  take  alone. 

First,  it  was  such  a  small  door!  No  child  older 
than  eleven  could  possibly  squeeze  through  it.  But 
she  was  of  the  size  of  a  child  of  eleven  and  might 
possibly  manage  that  difficulty. 

Secondly:  there  are  always  some  unforeseen  pos- 
sibilities in  every  situation,  and  though  she  had 
listened  carefully  to  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn's  directions 
and  was  sure  that  she  knew  them  by  heart,  she 
wished  she  had  kissed  her  father  more  tenderly  in 
leaving  him  that  night  for  the  ball,  and  that  she  had 
not  pouted  so  undutifully  at  some  harsh  stricture  he 
had  made.  Did  this  mean  fear?  She  despised  the 
feeling  if  it  did. 

139 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Thirdly:  She  hated  darkness.  She  knew  this 
when  she  offered  herself  for  this  undertaking;  but  she 
was  in  a  bright  room  at  the  moment  and  only  imag- 
ined what  she  must  now  face  as  a  reality.  But  one 
jet  had  been  lit  in  the  cellar  and  that  near  the  en- 
trance. Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  seemed  not  to  need 
light,  even  in  his  unfastening  of  the  small  door  which 
Violet  was  sure  had  been  protected  by  more  than  one 
lock. 

Doubt,  shadow,  and  a  solitary  climb  between  un- 
known walls,  with  only  a  streak  of  light  for  her  goal, 
and  the  clinging  pressure  of  Florence  Digby's  hand 
on  her  own  for  solace — surely  the  prospect  was  one 
to  tax  the  courage  of  her  young  heart  to  its  limit. 
But  she  had  promised,  and  she  would  fulfil.  So  with 
a  brave  smile  she  stooped  to  the  little  door,  and  in 
another  moment  had  started  on  her  journey. 

For  journey  the  shortest  distance  may  seem  when 
every  inch  means  a  heart-throb  and  one  growrs  old 
in  traversing  a  foot.  At  first  the  way  was  easy;  she 
had  but  to  crawl  up  a  slight  incline  with  the  comfort- 
ing consciousness  that  two  people  were  within  reach 
of  her  voice,  almost  within  sound  of  her  beating 
heart.  But  presently  she  came  to  a  turn,  beyond 
which  her  fingers  failed  to  reach  any  wall  on  her  left. 
Then  came  a  step  up  which  she  stumbled,  and  farther 
on  a  short  flight,  each  tread  of  which  she  had  been 
told  to  test  before  she  ventured  to  climb  it,  lest  the 
decay  of  innumerable  years  should  have  weakened 
the  wood  too  much  to  bear  her  weight.  One,  two, 
140 


\ 

Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

three,  four,  five  steps !  Then  a  landing  with  an  open 
space  beyond.  Half  of  her  journey  was  done.  Here 
she  felt  she  could  give  a  minute  to  drawing  her 
breath  naturally,  if  the  air,  unchanged  in  years, 
would  allow  her  to  do  so.  Besides,  here  she  had 
been  enjoined  to  do  a  certain  thing  and  to  do  it  ac- 
cording to  instructions.  Three  matches  had  been 
given  her  and  a  little  night  candle.  Denied  all  light 
up  to  now,  it  was  at  this  point  she  was  to  light  her 
candle  and  place  it  on  the  floor,  so  that  in  returning 
she  should  not  miss  the  staircase  and  get  a  fall.  She 
had  promised  to  do  this,  and  was  only  too  happy  to 
see  a  spark  of  light  scintillate  into  life  in  the  immeas- 
urable darkness. 

She  was  now  in  a  great  room  long  closed  to  the 
world,  where  once  officers  in  Colonial  wars  had  feast- 
ed, and  more  than  one  council  had  been  held.  A 
room,  too,  which  had  seen  more  than  one  tragic 
happening,  as  its  almost  unparalleled  isolation  pro- 
claimed. So  much  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  had  told  her, 
but  she  was  warned  to  be  careful  in  traversing  it 
and  not  upon  any  pretext  to  swerve  aside  from  the 
right-hand  wall  till  she  came  to  a  huge  mantelpiece. 
This  passed,  and  a  sharp  corner  turned,  she  ought  to 
see  somewhere  in  the  dim  spaces  before  her  a  streak 
of  vivid  light  shining  through  the  crack  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  blocked-up  door.  The  paper  should  be 
somewhere  near  this  streak. 

All  simple,  all  easy  of  accomplishment,  if  only 
that  streak  of  light  were  all  she  was  likely  to  see  or 
141 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

think  of.  If  the  horror  which  was  gripping  her 
throat  should  not  take  shape!  If  things  would  re- 
main shrouded  in  impenetrable  darkness,  and  not 
force  themselves  in  shadowy  suggestion  upon  her 
excited  fancy!  But  the  blackness  of  the  passage- 
way through  which  she  had  just  struggled,  was  not 
to  be  found  here.  Whether  it  was  the  effect  of  that 
small  flame  flickering  at  the  top  of  the  staircase  be- 
hind her,  or  of  some  change  in  her  own  powers  of 
seeing,  surely  there  was  a  difference  in  her  present 
outlook.  Tall  shapes  were  becoming  visible — the 
air  was  no  longer  blank — she  could  see —  Then  sud- 
denly she  saw  why.  In  the  wall  high  up  on  her  right 
was  a  window.  It  was  small  and  all  but  invisible, 
being  covered  on  the  outside  with  vines,  and  on  the 
inside  with  the  cobwebs  of  a  century.  But  some 
small  gleams  from  the  starlight  night  came  through, 
making  phantasms  out  of  ordinary  things,  which 
unseen  were  horrible  enough,  and  half  seen  choked 
her  heart  with  terror. 

"I  cannot  bear  it,"  she  whispered  to  herself  even 
while  creeping  forward,  her  hand  upon  the  wall. 
"I  will  close  my  eyes"  was  her  next  thought.  "I 
will  make  my  own  darkness,"  and  with  a  spasmodic 
forcing  of  her  lids  together,  she  continued  to  creep 
on,  passing  the  mantelpiece,  where  she  knocked 
against  something  which  fell  with  an  awful  clatter. 

This  sound,  followed  as  it  was  by  that  of  smoth- 
ered voices  from  the  excited  group  awaiting  the  result 
of  her  experiment  from  behind  the  impenetrable 
142 


Missing:  Page  Thirteen 

wall  she  should  be  n  earing  now  if  she  had  followed 
her  instructions  aright,  freed  her  instantly  from  her 
fancies;  and  opening  her  eyes  once  more,  she  cast 
a  look  ahead,  and  to  her  delight,  saw  but  a  few  steps 
away,  the  thin  streak  of  bright  light  which  marked 
the  end  of  her  journey. 

It  took  her  but  a  moment  after  that  to  find  the 
missing  page,  and  picking  it  up  in  haste  from  the 
dusty  floor,  she  turned  herself  quickly  about  and 
joyfully  began  to  retrace  her  steps.  Why,  then,  was 
it  that  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  more  her  voice 
suddenly  broke  into  a  wild,  unearthly  shriek,  which 
ringing  with  terror  burst  the  bounds  of  that  dungeon- 
like  room,  and  sank,  a  barbed  shaft,  into  the  breasts 
of  those  awaiting  the  result  of  her  doubtful  adven- 
ture, at  either  end  of  this  dread  no-thoroughfare. 

What  had  happened? 

If  they  had  thought  to  look  out,  they  would  have 
seen  that  the  moon — held  in  check  by  a  bank  of 
cloud  occupying  half  the  heavens — had  suddenly 
burst  its  bounds  and  was  sending  long  bars  of  re- 
vealing light  into  every  uncurtained  window. 

VI 

Florence  Digby,  hi  her  short  and  sheltered  life, 
had  possibly  never  known  any  very  great  or  deep  emo- 
tion. But  she  touched  the  bottom  of  extreme  terror 
at  that  moment,  as  with  her  ears  still  thrilling  with 
Violet's  piercing  cry,  she  turned  to  look  at  Mr.  Van 
Broecklyn,  and  beheld  the  instantaneous  wreck  it 
143 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

had  made  of  this  seemingly  strong  man.  Not  till 
he  came  to  lie  in  his  coffin  would  he  show  a  more 
ghastly  countenance;  and  trembling  herself  almost 
to  the  point  of  falling,  she  caught  him  by  the  arm 
and  sought  to  read  in  his  face  what  had  happened. 
Something  disastrous  she  was  sure;  something  which 
he  had  feared  and  was  partially  prepared  for,  yet 
which  in  happening  had  crushed  him.  Was  it  a  pit- 
fall into  which  the  poor  little  lady  had  fallen?  If  so — 
But  he  is  speaking — mumbling  low  words  to  him- 
self. Some  of  them  she  can  hear.  He  is  reproaching 
himself — repeating  over  and  over  that  he  should 
never  have  taken  such  a  chance;  that  he  should  have 
remembered  her  youth — the  weakness  of  a  young 
girl's  nerve.  He  had  been  mad,  and  now — and 
now — 

With  the  repetition  of  this  word  his  murmuring 
ceased.  All  his  energies  were  now  absorbed  in 
listening  at  the  low  door  separating  him  from  what 
he  was  agonizing  to  know — a  door  impossible  to  en- 
ter, impossible  to  enlarge — a  barrier  to  all  help — an 
opening  whereby  sound  might  pass  but  nothing  else 
save  her  own  small  body,  now  lying — where? 

"Is  she  hurt?"  faltered  Florence,  stooping,  her- 
self, to  listen.  "Can you  hear  anything — anything? ' ' 

For  an  instant  he  did  not  answer;  every  faculty 
was  absorbed  in  the  one  sense;  then  slowly  and  in 
gasps  he  began  to  mutter: 

"I  think — I  hear — something.  Her  step — no,  no, 
no  step.  All  is  as  quiet  as  death;  not  a  sound, — 
144 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

not  a  breath — she  has  fainted.    O  God!    O  God! 
Why  this  calamity  on  top  of  all!" 

He  had  sprung  to  his  feet  at  the  utterance  of  this 
invocation,  but  next  moment  was  down  on  his  knees 
again,  listening — listening. 

Never  was  silence  more  profound;  they  were 
hearkening  for  murmurs  from  a  tomb.  Florence 
began  to  sense  the  full  horror  of  it  all,  and  was 
swaying  helplessly  when  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  im- 
pulsively lifted  his  hand  in  an  admonitory  Hush! 
and  through  the  daze  of  her  faculties  a  small  far 
sound  began  to  make  itself  heard,  growing  louder  as 
she  waited,  then  becoming  faint  again,  then  alto- 
gether ceasing  only  to  renew  itself  once  more,  till  it 
resolved  into  an  approaching  step,  faltering  in  its 
course,  but  coming  ever  nearer  and  nearer. 

"She's  safe!  She's  not  hurt!"  sprang  from  Flo- 
rence's lips  in  inexpressible  relief;  and  expecting  Mr. 
Van  Broecklyn  to  show  an  equal  joy,  she  turned 
toward  him,  with  the  cheerful  cry. 

"  Now  if  she  has  been  so  fortunate  as  to  find  that 
missing  page,  we  shall  all  be  repaid  for  our  fright." 

A  movement  on  his  part,  a  shifting  of  position 
which  brought  him  finally  to  his  feet,  but  he  gave 
no  other  proof  of  having  heard  her,  nor  did  his 
countenance  mirror  her  relief.  "It  is  as  if  he 
dreaded,  insteaded  of  hailed,  her  return,"  was 
Florence's  inward  comment  as  she  watched  him 
involuntarily  recoil  at  each  fresh  token  of  Violet's 
advance. 

145 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Yet  because  this  seemed  so  very  unnatural,  she 
persisted  in  her  efforts  to  lighten  the  situation,  and 
when  he  made  no  attempt  to  encourage  Violet  in 
her  approach,  she  herself  stooped  and  called  out  a 
cheerful  welcome  which  must  have  rung  sweetly 
in  the  poor  little  detective's  ears. 

A  sorry  sight  was  Violet,  when,  helped  by  Florence 
she  finally  crawled  into  view  through  the  narrow 
opening  and  stood  once  again  on  the  cellar  floor. 
Pale,  trembling,  and  soiled  with  the  dust  of  years, 
she  presented  a  helpless  figure  enough,  till  the  joy 
in  Florence's  face  recalled  some  of  her  spirit,  and, 
glancing  down  at  her  hand  in  which  a  sheet  of  paper 
was  visible,  she  asked  for  Mr.  Spielhagen. 

"I've  got  the  formula,"  she  said.  "If  you  will 
bring  him,  I  will  hand  it  over  to  him  here." 

Not  a  word  of  her  adventure;  nor  so  much  as  one 
glance  at  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn,  standing  far  back  in 
the  shadows. 

Nor  was  she  more  communicative,  when,  the 
formula  restored  and  everything  made  right  with 
Mr.  Spielhagen,  they  all  came  together  again  in 
the  library  for  a  final  word. 

"I  was  frightened  by  the  silence  and  the  dark- 
ness, and  so  cried  out,"  she  explained  in  answer  to 
their  questions.  "Anyone  would  have  done  so 
who  found  himself  alone  in  so  musty  a  place,"  she 
added,  with  an  attempt  at  lightsomeness  which 
deepened  the  pallor  on  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn's  cheek, 
146 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

already   sufficiently   noticeable   to  have  been  re- 
marked upon  by  more  than  one. 

"No  ghosts?"  laughed  Mr.  Cornell,  too  happy 
in  the  return  of  his  hopes  to  be  fully  sensible  of  the 
feelings  of  those  about  him.  "No  whispers  from 
impalpable  lips  or  touches  from  spectre  hands? 
Nothing  to  explain  the  mystery  of  that  room  so 
long  shut  up  that  even  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  declares 
himself  ignorant  of  its  secret?" 

"Nothing,"  returned  Violet,  showing  her  dimples 
in  full  force  now. 

"If  Miss  Strange  had  any  such  experiences — if 
she  has  anything  to  tell  worthy  of  so  marked  a 
curiosity,  she  will  tell  it  now, "  came  from  the  gentle- 
man just  alluded  to,  in  tones  so  stern  and  strange 
that  all  show  of  frivolity  ceased  on  the  instant. 
"Have  you  anything  to  tell,  Miss  Strange?" 

Greatly  startled,  she  regarded  him  with  widening 
eyes  for  a  moment,  then  with  a  move  towards  the 
door,  remarked,  with  a  general  look  about  her: 

"Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  knows  his  own  house,  and 
doubtless  can  relate  its  histories  if  he  will.  I  am 
a  busy  little  body  who  having  finished  my  work 
am  now  ready  to  return  home,  there  to  wait  for 
the  next  problem  which  an  indulgent  fate  may 
offer  me." 

She  was  near  the  threshold — she  was  about  to 
take  her  leave,  when  suddenly  she  felt  two  hands 
fall  on  her  shoulder,  and  turning,  met  the  eyes  of 
Mr.  Van  Broecklyn  burning  into  her  own. 
147 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"You  saw!"  dropped  in  an  almost  inaudible 
whisper  from  his  lips. 

The  shiver  which  shook  her  answered  him  better 
than  any  word. 

With  an  exclamation  of  despair,  he  withdrew  his 
hands,  and  facing  the  others  now  standing  together 
recovered  some  of  his  self-possession: 

"I  must  ask  for  another  hour  of  your  company. 
I  can  no  longer  keep  my  sorrow  to  myself.  A  divid- 
ing line  has  just  been  drawn  across  my  life,  and  I 
must  have  the  sympathy  of  someone  who  knows  my 
past,  or  I  shall  go  mad  in  my  self-imposed  solitude. 
Come  back,  Miss  Strange.  You  of  all  others  have 
the  prior  right  to  hear." 

vn 

"I  shall  have  to  begin,"  said  he,  when  they  were 
all  seated  and  ready  to  listen,  "by  giving  you  some 
idea,  not  so  much  of  the  family  tradition,  as  of  the 
effect  of  this  tradition  upon  all  who  bore  the  name 
of  Van  Broecklyn.  This  is  not  the  only  house, 
even  in  America,  which  contains  a  room  shut  away 
from  intrusion.  In  England  there  are  many.  But 
there  is  this  difference  between  most  of  them  and 
ours.  No  bars  or  locks  forcibly  held  shut  the  door 
we  were  forbidden  to  open.  The  command  was 
enough;  that  and  the  superstitious  fear  which  such 
a  command,  attended  by  a  long  and  unquestioning 
obedience,  was  likely  to  engender. 

"I  know  no  more  than  you  do  why  some  early 
148 


Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

ancestor  laid  his  ban  upon  this  room.  But  from 
my  earliest  years  I  was  given  to  understand  that 
there  was  one  latch  in  the  house  which  was  never 
to  be  lifted;  that  any  fault  would  be  forgiven  sooner 
than  that;  that  the  honour  of  the  whole  family 
stood  in  the  way  of  disobedience,  and  that  I  was  to 
preserve  that  honour  to  my  dying  day.  You  will 
say  that  all  this  is  fantastic,  and  wonder  that  sane 
people  in  these  modern  tunes  should  subject  them- 
selves to  such  a  ridiculous  restriction,  especially 
when  no  good  reason  was  alleged,  and  the  very 
source  of  the  tradition  from  which  it  sprung  for- 
gotten. You  are  right;  but  if  you  look  long  into 
human  nature,  you  will  see  that  the  bonds  which 
hold  the  firmest  are  not  material  ones — that  an  idea 
will  make  a  man  and  mould  a  character — that  it 
lies  at  the  source  of  all  heroisms  and  is  to  be  courted 
or  feared  as  the  case  may  be. 

"For  me  it  possessed  a  power  proportionate  to 
my  loneliness.  I  don't  think  there  was  ever  a  more 
lonely  child.  My  father  and  mother  were  so  un- 
happy in  each  other's  companionship  that  one  or 
other  of  them  was  almost  always  away.  But  I  saw 
little  of  either  even  when  they  were  at  home.  The 
constraint  in  their  attitude  toward  each  other 
affected  their  conduct  toward  me.  I  have  asked 
myself  more  than  once  if  either  of  them  had  any 
real  affection  for  me.  To  my  father  I  spoke  of  her; 
to  her  of  him;  and  never  pleasurably.  This  I  am 
forced  to  say,  or  you  cannot  understand  my  story. 
149 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Would  to  God  I  could  tell  another  tale!  Would  to 
God  I  had  such  memories  as  other  men  have  of  a 
father's  clasp,  a  mother's  kiss — but  no!  my  grief, 
already  profound,  might  have  become  abysmal. 
Perhaps  it  is  best  as  it  is;  only,  I  might  have  been 
a  different  child,  and  made  for  myself  a  different 
fate — who  knows. 

"As  it  was,  I  was  thrown  almost  entirely  upon 
my  own  resources  for  any  amusement.  This ,  led 
me  to  a  discovery  I  made  one  day.  In  a  far  part 
of  the  cellar  behind  some  heavy  casks,  I  found  a 
little  door.  It  was  so  low — so  exactly  fitted  to  my 
small  body,  that  I  had  the  greatest  desire  to  enter 
it.  But  I  could  not  get  around  the  casks.  At  last 
an  expedient  occurred  to  me.  We  had  an  old 
servant  who  came  nearer  loving  me  than  anyone 
else.  One  day  when  I  chanced  to  be  alone  in  the 
cellar,  I  took  out  my  ball  and  began  throwing  it 
about.  Finally  it  landed  behind  the  casks,  and 
I  ran  with  a  beseeching  cry  to  Michael,  to  move 
them. 

"It  was  a  task  requiring  no  little  strength  and 
address,  but  he  managed,  after  a  few  herculean 
efforts,  to  shift  them  aside  and  I  saw  with  delight 
my  way  opened  to  that  mysterious  little  door. 
But  I  did  not  approach  it  then;  some  instinct  de- 
terred me.  But  when  the  opportunity  came  for 
me  to  venture  there  alone,  I  did  so,  in  the  most 
adventurous  spirit,  and  began  my  operations  by 
sliding  behind  the  casks  and  testing  the  handle 
ISO 


Missing:  Page  Thirteen 

of  the  little  door.  It  turned,  and  after  a  pull  or 
two  the  door  yielded.  With  my  heart  in  my  mouth, 
I  stooped  and  peered  in.  I  could  see  nothing — a 
black  hole  and  nothing  more.  This  caused  me  a 
moment's  hesitation.  I  was  afraid  of  the  dark — 
had  always  been.  But  curiosity  and  the  spirit 
of  adventure  triumphed.  Saying  to  myself  that  I 
was  Robinson  Crusoe  exploring  the  cave,  I  crawled 
in,  only  to  find  that  I  had  gained  nothing.  It  was 
as  dark  inside  as  it  had  looked  to  be  from  without. 
"There  was  no  fun  in  this,  so  I  crawled  back 
and  when  I  tried  the  experiment  again,  it  was  with 
a  bit  ,of  candle  in  my  hand,  and  a  surreptitious 
match  or  two.  What  I  saw,  when  with  a  very  trem- 
bling little  hand  I  had  lighted  one  of  the  matches, 
would  have  been  disappointing  to  most  boys,  but 
not  to  me.  The  litter  and  old  boards  I  saw  in  odd 
corners  about  me  were  full  of  possibilities,  while  in 
the  dimness  beyond  I  seemed  to  perceive  a  sort  of 
staircase  which  might  lead — I  do  not  think  I  made 
any  attempt  to  answer  that  question  even  in  my 
own  mind,  but  when,  after  some  hesitation  and  a 
sense  of  great  daring,  I  finally  crept  up  those  steps, 
I  remember  very  well  my  sensation  at  finding  myself 
in  front  of  a  narrow  closed  door.  It  suggested  too 
vividly  the  one  in  Grandfather's  little  room — the 
door  in  the  wainscot  which  we  were  never  to  open. 
I  had  my  first  real  trembling  fit  here,  and  at  once 
fascinated  and  repelled  by  this  obstruction  I  stum- 
bled and  lost  my  candle,  which,  going  out  in  the 
151 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

fall,  left  me  in  total  darkness  and  a  very  frightened 
state  of  mind.  For  my  imagination,  which  had  been 
greatly  stirred  by  my  own  vague  thoughts  of  the 
forbidden  room,  immediately  began  to  people  the 
space  about  me  with  ghoulish  figures.  How  should 
I  escape  them,  how  ever  reach  my  own  little  room 
again,  undetected  and  in  safety? 

"But  these  terrors,  deep  as  they  were,  were  noth- 
ing to  the  real  fright  which  seized  me  when,  the 
darkness  finally  braved,  and  the  way  found  back 
into  the  bright,  wide-open  halls  of  the  house,  I  be- 
came conscious  of  having  dropped  something  besides 
the  candle.  My  match-box  was  gone — not  my 
match-box,  but  my  grandfather's  which  I  had  found 
lying  on  his  table  and  carried  off  on  this  adventure, 
in  all  the  confidence  of  irresponsible  youth.  To 
make  use  of  it  for  a  little  while,  trusting  to  his  not 
missing  it  in  the  confusion  I  had  noticed  about  the 
house  that  morning,  was  one  thing;  to  lose  it  was 
another.  It  was  no  common  box.  Made  of  sold  and 
cherished  for  some  special  reason  well  known  to 
himself,  I  had  often  heard  him  say  that  some  day  I 
would  appreciate  its  value  and  be  glad  to  own  it. 
And  I  had  left  it  in  that  hole  and  at  any  minute  he 
might  miss  it — possibly  ask  for  it!  The  day  was  one 
of  torment.  My  mother  was  away  or  shut  up  in  her 
room.  My  father — I  don't  know  just  what  thoughts 
I  had  about  him.  He  was  not  to  be  seen  either,  and 
the  servants  cast  strange  looks  at  me  when  I  spoke 
his  name.  But  I  little  realized  the  blow  which  had 
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just  fallen  upon  the  house  in  his  definite  departure, 
and  only  thought  of  my  own  trouble,  and  of  how 
I  should  meet  my  grandfather's  eye  when  the  hour 
came  for  him  to  draw  me  to  his  knee  for  his  usual 
good-night. 

"That  I  was  spared  this  ordeal  for  the  first  time 
this  very  night  first  comforted  me,  then  added  to 
my  distress.  He  had  discovered  his  loss  and  was 
angry.  On  the  morrow  he  would  ask  me  for  the  box 
and  I  would  have  to  lie,  for  never  could  I  find  the 
courage  to  tell  him  where  I  had  been.  Such  an  act  of 
presumption  he  would  never  forgive,  or  so  I  thought 
as  I  lay  and  shivered  in  my  little  bed.  That  his  cold- 
ness, his  neglect,  sprang  from  the  discovery  just 
made  that  my  mother  as  well  as  my  father  had  just 
fled  the  house  forever  was  as  little  known  to  me  as 
the  morning  calamity.  I  had  been  given  my  usual 
tendance  and  was  tucked  safely  into  bed;  but  the 
gloom,  the  silence  which  presently  settled  upon  the 
house  had  a  very  different  explanation  in  my  mind 
from  the  real  one.  My  sin  (for  such  it  loomed  large 
in  my  mind  by  this  time)  coloured  the  whole  situ- 
ation and  accounted  for  every  event. 

"At  what  hour  I  slipped  from  my  bed  on  to  the 
cold  floor,  I  shall  never  know.  To  me  it  seemed  to 
be  in  the  dead  of  night;  but  I  doubt  if  it  were  more 
than  ten.  So  slowly  creep  away  the  moments  to  a 
wakeful  child.  I  had  made  a  great  resolve.  Awful 
as  the  prospect  seemed  to  me, — frightened  as  I  was 
by  the  very  thought, — I  had  determined  in  my  small 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

mind  to  go  down  into  the  cellar,  and  into  that  mid- 
night hole  again,  in  search  of  the  lost  box.  I  would 
take  a  candle  and  matches,  this  time  from  my  own 
mantel-shelf,  and  if  everyone  was  asleep,  as  appeared 
from  the  deathly  quiet  of  the  house,  I  would  be  able 
to  go  and  come  without  anybody  ever  being  the 
wiser. 

"Dressing  in  the  dark,  I  found  my  matches  and 
my  candle  and,  putting  them  in  one  of  my  pockets, 
softly  opened  my  door  and  looked  out.  Nobody 
was  stirring;  every  Light  was  out  except  a  solitary 
one  in  the  lower  hall.  That  this  still  burned  con- 
veyed no  meaning  to  my  mind.  How  could  I  know 
that  the  house  was  so  still  and  the  rooms  so  dark 
because  everyone  was  out  searching  for  some  clue  to 
my  mother's  flight?  If  I  had  looked  at  the  clock — 
but  I  did  not;  I  was  too  intent  upon  my  errand,  too 
filled  with  the  fever  of  my  desperate  undertaking, 
to  be  affected  by  anything  not  bearing  directly 
upon  it. 

"Of  the  terror  caused  by  my  own  shadow  on  the 
wall  as  I  made  the  turn  in  the  hall  below,  I  have  as 
keen  a  recollection  to-day  as  though  it  happened 
yesterday.  But  that  did  not  deter  me;  nothing  de- 
terred me,  till  safe  in  the  cellar  I  crouched  down 
behind  the  casks  to  get  my  breath  again  before  en- 
tering the  hole  beyond. 

"I  had  made  some  noise  in  feeling  my  way  around 
these  casks,  and  I  trembled  lest  these  sounds  had 
been  heard  upstairs!    But  this  fear  soon  gave  place 
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to  one  far  greater.  Other  sounds  were  making  them- 
selves heard.  A  din  of  small  skurrying  feet  above, 
below,  on  every  side  of  me!  Rats!  rats  in  the  wall! 
rats  on  the  cellar  bottom!  How  I  ever  stirred  from 
the  spot  I  do  not  know,  but  when  I  did  stir,  it  was  to 
go  forward,  and  enter  the  uncanny  hole. 

"I  had  intended  to  light  my  candle  when  I  got 
inside;  but  for  some  reason  I  went  stumbling  along 
in  the  dark,  following  the  wall  till  I  got  to  the  steps 
where  I  had  dropped  the  box.  Here  a  light  was 
necessary,  but  my  hand  did  not  go  to  my  pocket.  I 
thought  it  better  to  climb  the  steps  first,  and  softly 
one  foot  found  the  tread  and  then  another.  I  had 
only  three  more  to  climb  and  then  my  right  hand, 
now  feeling  its  way  along  the  wall,  would  be  free  to 
strike  a  match.  I  climbed  the  three  steps  and  was 
steadying  myself  against  the  door  for  a  final  plunge, 
when  something  happened — something  so  strange, 
so  unexpected,  and  so  incredible  that  I  wonder  I  did 
not  shriek  aloud  in  my  terror.  The  door  was  moving 
under  my  hand.  It  was  slowly  opening  inward.  I 
could  feel  the  chill  made  by  the  widening  crack. 
Moment  by  moment  this  chill  increased;  the  gap 
was  growing — a  presence  was  there — a  presence  be- 
fore which  I  sank  in  a  small  heap  upon  the  landing. 
Would  it  advance?  Had  it  feet — hands?  Was  it  a 
presence  which  could  be  felt? 

"Whatever  it  was,  it  made  no  attempt  to  pass, 
and  presently  I  lifted  my  head  only  to  quake  anew 
at  the  sound  of  a  voice — a  human  voice — my  moth- 
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er's  voice — so  near  me  that  by  putting  out  my  arms 
I  might  have  touched  her. 

"  She  was  speaking  to  my  father.  I  knew  it  from 
the  tone.  She  was  saying  words  which,  little  under- 
stood as  they  were,  made  such  a  havoc  in  my  youth- 
ful mind  that  I  have  never  forgotten  them. 

" '  I  have  come ! '  she  said.  '  They  think  I  have  fled 
the  house  and  are  looking  far  and  wide  for  me.  We 
shall  not  be  disturbed.  Who  would  think  of  looking 
here  for  either  you  or  me? ' 

"Here!  The  word  sank  like  a  plummet  in  my 
breast.  I  had  known  for  some  few  minutes  that  I 
was  on  the  threshold  of  the  forbidden  room;  but  they 
were  in  it.  I  can  scarcely  make  you  understand  the 
tumult  which  this  awoke  in  my  brain.  Somehow,  I 
had  never  thought  that  any  such  braving  of  the 
house's  law  would  be  possible. 

"I  heard  my  father's  answer,  but  it  conveyed  no 
meaning  to  me.  I  also  realized  that  he  spoke  from 
a  distance, — that  he  was  at  one  end  of  the  room 
while  we  were  at  the  other.  I  was  presently  to  have 
this  idea  confirmed,  for  while  I  was  striving  with  all 
my  might  and  main  to  subdue  my  very  heart-throbs 
so  that  she  would  not  hear  me  or  suspect  my  presence, 
the  darkness — I  should  rather  say  the  blackness  of 
the  place  yielded  to  a  flash  of  lightning — heat  light- 
ning, all  glare  and  no  sound — and  I  caught  an  instan- 
taneous vision  of  my  father's  figure  standing  with 
gleaming  things  about  him,  which  affected  rae  at 
the  moment  as  supernatural,  but  which,  in  later 
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Missing:   Page  Thirteen 

years,  I  decided  to  have  been  weapons  hanging  on  a 
wall. 

"  She  saw  him  too,  for  she  gave  a  quick  laugh  and 
said  they  would  not  need  any  candles;  and  then, 
there  was  another  flash  and  I  saw  something  in  his 
hand  and  something  in  hers,  and  though  I  did  not 
yet  understand,  I  felt  myself  turning  deathly  sick 
and  gave  a  choking  gasp  which  was  lost  in  the  rush 
she  made  into  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  the  keen- 
ness of  her  swift  low  cry. 

"  'Garde-toil  for  only  one  of  us  will  ever  leave  this 
room  alive!' 

"A  duel!  a  duel  to  the  death  between  this  husband 
and  wife — this  father  and  mother — in  this  hole  of 
dead  tragedies  and  within  the  sight  and  hearing  of 
their  child!  Has  Satan  ever  devised  a  scheme  more 
hideous  for  ruining  the  life  of  an  eleven-year-old 
boy! 

"Not  that  I  took  it  all  in  at  once.  I  was  too  in- 
nocent and  much  too  dazed  to  comprehend  such 
hatred,  much  less  the  passions  which  engendered  it. 
I  only  knew  that  something  horrible — something 
beyond  the  conception  of  my  childish  mind — was 
going  to  take  place  in  the  darkness  before  me;  and 
the  terror  of  it  made  me  speechless;  would  to  God 
it  had  made  me  deaf  and  blind  and  dead! 

"  She  had  dashed  from  her  corner  and  he  had  slid 
away  from  his,  as  the  next  fantastic  gleam  which  lit 
up  the  room  showed  me.  It  also  showed  the  weap- 
ons in  their  hands,  and  for  a  moment  I  felt  re- 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery- 
assured  when  I  saw  these  were  swords,  for  I  had  seen 
them  before  with  foils  in  their  hands  practising  for 
exercise,  as  they  said,  in  the  great  garret.  But  the 
swords  had  buttons  on  them,  and  this  time  the  tips 
were  sharp  and  shone  in  the  keen  light. 

"An  exclamation  from  her  and  a  growl  of  rage 
from  him  were  followed  by  movements  I  could 
scarcely  hear,  but  which  were  terrifying  from  their 
very  quiet.  Then  the  sound  of  a  clash.  The  swords 
had  crossed. 

"Had  the  lightning  flashed  forth  then,  the  end  of 
one  of  them  might  have  occurred.  But  the  darkness 
remained  undisturbed,  and  when  the  glare  relit  the 
great  room  again,  they  were  already  far  apart.  This 
called  out  a  word  from  him;  the  one  sentence  he 
spoke — I  can  never  forget  it: 

"'Rhoda,  there  is  blood  on  your  sleeve;  I  have 
wounded  you.  Shall  we  call  it  off  and  fly,  as  the  poor 
creatures  in  there  think  we  have,  to  the  opposite 
ends  of  the  earth? ' 

"I  almost  spoke;  I  almost  added  my  childish  plea 
to  his  for  them  to  stop — to  remember  me  and  stop. 
But  not  a  muscle  in  my  throat  responded  to  my 
agonized  effort.  Her  cold,  clear  'No!'  fell  before 
my  tongue  was  loosed  or  my  heart  freed  from  the 
ponderous  weight  crushing  it. 

"'I  have  vowed  and  I  keep  my  promises,'  she 
went  on  in  a  tone  quite  strange  to  me.  '  What  would 
either 's  life  be  worth  with  the  other  alive  and  happy 
in  this  world?' 

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"He  made  no  answer;  and  those  subtle  move- 
ments— shadows  of  movements  I  might  almost  call 
them — recommenced.  Then  there  came  a  sudden 
cry,  shrill  and  poignant — had  Grandfather  been  in 
his  room  he  would  surely  have  heard  it — and  the 
flash  coming  almost  simultaneously  with  its  utter- 
ance, I  saw  what  has  haunted  my  sleep  from  that 
day  to  this,  my  father  pinned  against  the  wall, 
sword  still  in  hand,  and  before  him  my  mother, 
fiercely  triumphant,  her  staring  eyes  fixed  on  his 
and — 

"Nature  could  bear  no  more;  the  band  loosened 
from  my  throat;  the  oppression  lifted  from  my 
breast  long  enough  for  me  to  give  one  wild  wail  and 
she  turned,  saw  (heaven  sent  its  flashes  quickly  at 
this  moment)  and  recognizing  my  childish  form,  all 
the  horror  of  her  deed  (or  so  I  have  fondly  hoped) 
rose  within  her,  and  she  gave  a  start  and  fell  full 
upon  the  point  upturned  to  receive  her. 

"A  groan;  then  a  gasping  sigh  from  him,  and 
silence  settled  upon  the  room  and  upon  my  heart 
and  so  far  as  I  knew  upon  the  whole  created  world. 

"That  is  my  story,  friends.  Do  you  wonder  that 
I  have  never  been  or  lived  like  other  men?" 

After  a  few  moments  of  sympathetic  silence,  Mr. 
Van  Broecklyn  went  on  to  say: 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  had  a  moment's  doubt  that 
my  parents  both  lay  dead  on  the  floor  of  that  great 
room.  When  I  came  to  myself — which  may  have 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

been  soon,  and  may  not  have  been  for  a  long  while 
— the  lightning  had  ceased  to  flash,  leaving  the  dark- 
ness stretching  like  a  blank  pall  between  me  and  that 
spot  in  which  were  concentrated  all  the  terrors  of 
which  my  imagination  was  capable.  I  dared  not 
enter  it.  I  dared  not  take  one  step  that  way.  My 
instinct  was  to  fly  and  hide  my  trembling  body  again 
in  my  own  bed;  and  associated  with  this,  in  fact 
dominating  it  and  making  me  old  before  my  time, 
was  another — never  to  tell;  never  to  let  anyone, 
least  of  all  my  grandfather — know  what  that  for- 
bidden room  now  contained.  I  felt  in  an  irresist- 
ible sort  of  way  that  my  father's  and  mother's  hon- 
our was  at  stake.  Besides,  terror  held  me  back;  I 
felt  that  I  should  die  if  I  spoke.  Childhood  has  such 
terrors  and  such  heroisms.  Silence  often  covers  in 
such,  abysses  of  thought  and  feeling  which  astonish 
us  in  later  years.  There  is  no  suffering  like  a  child's, 
terrified  by  a  secret  it  dare  not  for  some  reason  dis- 
close. 

"Events  aided  me.  When,  in  desperation  to  see 
once  more  the  light  and  all  the  things  which  linked 
me  to  life — my  little  bed,  the  toys  on  the  window- 
sill,  my  squirrel  in  its  cage — I  forced  myself  to  re- 
traverse  the  empty  house,  expecting  at  every  turn  to 
hear  my  father's  voice  or  come  upon  the  image  of 
my  mother — yes,  such  was  the  confusion  of  my  mind, 
though  I  knew  well  enough  even  then  that  they  were 
dead  and  that  I  should  never  hear  the  one  or  see  the 
other.  I  was  so  benumbed  with  the  cold  in  my  half- 
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Missing:  Page  Thirteen 

dressed  condition,  that  I  woke  in  a  fever  next  morn- 
ing after  a  terrible  dream  which  forced  from  my  lips 
the  cry  of  'Mother!  Mother!' — only  that. 

"I  was  cautious  even  in  delirium.  This  delirium 
and  my  flushed  cheeks  and  shining  eyes  led  them  to 
be  very  careful  to  me.  I  was  told  that  my  mother 
was  away  from  home;  and  when  after  two  days  of 
search  they  were  quite  sure  that  all  efforts  to  find 
either  her  or  my  father  were  likely  to  prove  fruitless, 
that  she  had  gone  to  Europe  where  we  would  follow 
her  as  soon  as  I  was  well.  This  promise,  offering  as 
it  did,  a  prospect  of  immediate  release  from  the  ter- 
rors which  were  consuming  me,  had  an  extraordinary 
effect  upon  me.  I  got  up  out  of  my  bed  saying  that 
I  was  well  now  and  ready  to  start  on  the  instant. 
The  doctor,  finding  my  pulse  equable,  and  my  whole 
condition  wonderfully  improved,  and  attributing  it, 
as  was  natural,  to  my  hope  of  soon  joining  my  moth- 
er, advised  my  whim  to  be  humoured  and  this  hope 
kept  active  till  travel  and  intercourse  with  children 
should  give  me  strength  and  prepare  me  for  the  bit- 
ter truth  ultimately  awaiting  me.  They  listened  to 
him  and  in  twenty-four  hours  our  preparations  were 
made.  We  saw  the  house  closed — with  what  emo- 
tions surging  in  one  small  breast,  I  leave  you  to 
imagine — and  then  started  on  our  long  tour.  For 
five  years  we  wandered  over  the  continent  of  Eu- 
rope, my  grandfather  finding  distraction,  as  well  as 
myself,  in  foreign  scenes  and  associations. 

"But  return  was  inevitable.    What  I  suffered  on 
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re-entering  this  house,  God  and  my  sleepless  pillow 
alone  know.  Had  any  discovery  been  made  in  our 
absence;  or  would  it  be  made  now  that  renovation 
and  repairs  of  all  kinds  were  necessary?  Time 
finally  answered  me.  My  secret  was  safe  and  likely 
to  continue  so,  and  this  fact  once  settled,  lif e  became 
endurable,  if  not  cheerful.  Since  then  I  have  spent 
only  two  nights  out  of  this  house,  and  they  were 
unavoidable.  When  my  grandfather  died  I  had  the 
wainscot  door  cemented  in.  It  was  done  from  this 
side  and  the  cement  painted  to  match  the  wood.  No 
one  opened  the  door  nor  have  I  ever  crossed  its 
threshold.  Sometimes  I  think  I  have  been  foolish; 
and  sometimes  I  know  that  I  have  been  very  wise. 
My  reason  has  stood  firm;  how  do  I  know  that  it 
would  have  done  so  if  I  had  subjected  myself  to  the 
possible  discovery  that  one  or  both  of  them  might 
have  been  saved  if  I  had  disclosed  instead  of  con- 
cealed my  adventure." 

A  pause  during  which  white  horror  had  shone  on 
every  face;  then  with  a  final  glance  at  Violet,  he  said: 

"What  sequel  do  you  see  to  this  story,  Miss 
Strange?  I  can  tell  the  past,  I  leave  you  to  picture 
the  future." 

Rising,  she  let  her  eye  travel  from  face  to  face  till 
it  rested  on  the  one  awaiting  it,  when  she  answered 
dreamily: 

"If  some  morning  in  the  news  column  there  should 
appear  an  account  of  the  ancient  and  historic  home 
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of  the  Van  Broecklyns  having  burned  to  the  ground 
in  the  night,  the  whole  country  would  mourn,  and 
the  city  feel  defrauded  of  one  of  its  treasures.  But 
there  are  five  persons  who  would  see  in  it  the  sequel 
which  you  ask  for." 

When  this  happened,  as  it  did  happen,  some  few 
weeks  later,  the  astonishing  discovery  was  made  that 
no  insurance  had  been  put  upon  this  house.  Why 
was  it  that  after  such  a  loss  Mr.  Van  Broecklyn 
seemed  to  renew  his  youth?  It  was  a  constant 
source  of  comment  among  his  friends. 


163 


V 

A  SCANDAL  IN  BOHEMIA 
A.  CONAN  DOYLE 


TO  Sherlock  Holmes  she  is  always  the  woman 
I  have  seldom  heard  him  mention  her  under 
any  other  name.  In  his  eyes  she  eclipses  and 
predominates  the  whole  of  her  sex.  It  was  not  that 
he  felt  any  emotion  akin  to  love  for  Irene  Adler. 
All  emotions,  and  that  one  particularly,  were  abhor- 
rent to  his  cold,  precise  but  admirably  balanced 
mind.  He  was,  I  take  it,  the  most  perfect  reasoning 
and  observing  machine  that  the  world  has  seen; 
but  as  a  lover,  he  would  have  placed  himself  in  a 
false  position.  He  never  spoke  of  the  softer  pas- 
sions, save  with  a  gibe  and  a  sneer.  They  were 
admirable  things  for  the  observer — excellent  for 
drawing  the  veil  from  men's  motives  and  actions. 
But  for  the  trained  reasoner  to  admit  such  intrusions 
into  his  own  delicate  and  finely  adjusted  tempera- 
ment was  to  introduce  a  distracting  factor  which 
might  throw  a  doubt  upon  all  his  mental  results. 
Grit  in  a  sensitive  instrument,  or  a  crack  in  one  of 
his  own  high-power  lenses,  would  not  be  more  dis- 
164 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

turbing  than  a  strong  emotion  in  a  nature  such  as 
his.  And  yet  there  was  but  one  woman  to  him,  and 
that  woman  was  the  late  Irene  Adler,  of  dubious 
and  questionable  memory. 

I  had  seen  little  of  Holmes  lately.  My  marriage 
had  drifted  us  away  from  each  other.  My  own 
complete  happiness,  and  the  home-centred  interests 
which  rise  up  around  the  man  who  first  finds  himself 
master  of  his  own  establishment,  were  sufficient  to 
absorb  all  my  attention;  while  Holmes,  who  loathed 
every  form  of  society  with  his  whole  Bohemian  soul, 
remained  in  our  lodgings  in  Baker  Street,  buried 
among  his  old  books,  and  alternating  from  week  to 
week  between  cocaine  and  ambition,  the  drowsiness 
of  the  drug  and  the  fierce  energy  of  his  own  keen 
nature.  He  was  still,  as  ever,  deeply  attracted  by 
the  study  of  crime,  and  occupied  his  immense  facul- 
ties and  extraordinary  powers  of  observation  in 
following  out  those  clews,  and  clearing  up  those 
mysteries,  which  had  been  abandoned  as  hopeless 
by  the  official  police.  From  time  to  time  I  heard 
some  vague  account  of  his  doings;  of  his  summons 
to  Odessa  in  the  case  of  the  Trepoff  murder,  of  his 
clearing  up  of  the  singular  tragedy  of  the  Atkinson 
brothers  at  Trincomalee,  and  finally  of  the  mission 
which  he  had  accomplished  so  delicately  and  suc- 
cessfully for  the  reigning  family  of  Holland.  Beyond 
these  signs  of  his  activity,  however,  which  I  merely 
shared  with  all  the  readers  of  the  daily  press,  I 
knew  little  of  my  former  friend  and  companion. 
165 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

One  night — it  was  on  the  2oth  of  March,  1888 — 
I  was  returning  from  a  journey  to  a  patient  (for  I 
had  now  returned  to  civil  practice),  when  my  way 
led  me  through  Baker  Street.  As  I  passed  the  well- 
remembered  door,  which  must  always  be  associated 
in  my  mind  with  my  wooing,  and  with  the  dark 
incidents  of  the  Study  in  Scarlet,  I  was  seized  with 
a  keen  desire  to  see  Holmes  again,  and  to  know 
how  he  was  employing  his  extraordinary  powers. 
His  rooms  were  brilliantly  lighted,  and  even  as  I 
looked  up,  I  saw  his  tall,  spare  figure  pass  twice  in 
a  dark  silhouette  against  the  blind.  He  was  pacing 
the  room  swiftly,  eagerly,  with  his  head  sunk  upon 
his  chest,  and  his  hands  clasped  behind  him.  To 
me,  who  knew  his  every  mood  and  habit,  his  attitude 
and  manner  told  their  own  story.  He  was  at  work 
again.  He  had  risen  out  of  his  drug-created  dreams, 
and  was  hot  upon  the  scent  of  some  new  problem. 
I  rang  the  bell,  and  was  shown  up  to  the  chamber 
which  had  formerly  been  hi  part  my  own. 

His  manner  was  not  effusive.  It  seldom  was;  but 
he  was  glad,  I  think,  to  see  me.  With  hardly  a  word 
spoken,  but  with  a  kindly  eye,  he  waved  me  to  an 
armchair,  threw  across  his  case  of  cigars,  and  indi- 
cated a  spirit  case  and  a  gasogene  in  the  corner. 
Then  he  stood  before  the  fire,  and  looked  me  over 
in  his  singular  introspective  fashion. 

"Wedlock  suits  you,"  he  remarked.  "I  think 
Watson,  that  you  have  put  on  seven  and  a  half 
pounds  since  I  saw  you." 

166 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

"Seven,"  I  answered. 

"Indeed,  I  should  have  thought  a  little  more. 
Just  a  trifle  more,  I  fancy,  Watson.  And  in  practice 
again,  I  observe.  You  did  not  tell  me  that  you 
intended  to  go  into  harness." 

"Then  how  do  you  know?" 

"I  see  it,  I  deduce  it.  How  do  I  know  that  you 
have  been  getting  yourself  very  wet  lately,  and  that 
you  have  a  most  clumsy  and  careless  servant 
girl?" 

"My  dear  Holmes,"  said  I,  "this  is  too  much. 
You  would  certainly  have  been  burned  had  you 
lived  a  few  centuries  ago.  It  is  true  that  I  had  a 
country  walk  on  Thursday  and  came  home  in  a 
dreadful  mess;  but  as  I  have  changed  my  clothes, 
I  can't  imagine  how  you  deduce  it.  As  to  Mary 
Jane,  she  is  incorrigible,  and  my  wife  has  given  her 
notice;  but  there  again  I  fail  to  see  how  you  work  it 
out." 

He  chuckled  to  himself  and  rubbed  his  long  nervous 
hands  together. 

"It  is  simplicity  itself,"  said  he,  "my  eyes  tell 
me  that  on  the  inside  of  your  left  shoe,  just  where 
the  firelight  strikes  it,  the  leather  is  scored  by  six 
almost  parallel  cuts.  Obviously  they  have  been 
caused  by  someone  who  has  very  carelessly  scraped 
round  the  edges  of  the  sole  in  order  to  remove  crusted 
mud  from  it.  Hence,  you  see,  my  double  deduction 
that  you  had  been  out  in  vile  weather,  and  that 
you  had  a  particularly  malignant  boot-slicking 

167 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

specimen  of  the  London  slavey.  As  to  your  practice, 
if  a  gentleman  walks  into  my  rooms,  smelling  of 
iodoform,  with  a  black  mark  of  nitrate  of  silver  upon 
his  right  forefinger,  and  a  bulge  on  the  side  of  his 
top  hat  to  show  where  he  has  secreted  his  stethoscope, 
I  must  be  dull  indeed  if  I  do  not  pronounce  him  to 
be  an  active  member  of  the  medical  profession." 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  ease  with  which  he 
explained  his  process  of  deduction.  "When  I  hear 
you  give  your  reasons,"  I  remarked,  "the  thing 
always  appears  to  me  so  ridiculously  simple  that 
I  could  easily  do  it  myself,  though  at  each  successive 
instance  of  your  reasoning  I  am  baffled,  until  you 
explain  your  process.  And  yet,  I  believe  that  my 
eyes  are  as  good  as  yours." 

"Quite  so,"  he  answered,  lighting  a  cigarette,  and 
throwing  himself  down  into  an  armchair.  "You 
see,  but  you  do  not  observe.  The  distinction  is 
clear.  For  example,  you  have  frequently  seen  the 
steps  which  lead  up  from  the  hall  to  this  room." 

"Frequently." 

"How  of  ten?" 

"Well,  some  hundreds  of  times." 

"Then  how  many  are  there?" 

"How  many?    I  don't  know." 

"Quite  so!  You  have  not  observed.  And  yet 
you  have  seen.  That  is  just  my  point.  Now,  I 
know  there  are  seventeen  steps,  because  I  have  both 
seen  and  observed.  By  the  way,  since  you  are 
interested  in  these  little  problems,  and  since  you 
168 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

are  good  enough  to  chronicle  one  or  two  of  my 
trifling  experiences,  you  may  be  interested  in  this." 
He  threw  over  a  sheet  of  thick  pink-tinted  note 
paper  which  had  been  lying  open  upon  the  table. 
"It  came  by  the  last  post,"  said  he.  "Read  it 
aloud." 

The  note  was  undated,  and  without  either  signa- 
ture or  address. 

"There  will  call  upon  you  to-night,  at  a  quarter  to 
eight  o'clock, "  it  said,  "  a  gentleman  who  desires  to 
consult  you  upon  a  matter  of  the  very  deepest 
moment.  Your  recent  services  to  one  of  the  royal 
houses  of  Europe  have  shown  that  you  are  one  who 
may  safely  be  trusted  with  matters  which  are  of  an 
importance  which  can  hardly  be  exaggerated.  This 
account  of  you  we  have  from  all  quarters  received. 
Be  in  your  chamber,  then,  at  that  hour,  and  do 
not  take  it  amiss  if  your  visitor  wears  a  mask." 

"This  is  indeed  a  mystery, "  I  remarked.  "What 
do  you  imagine  that  it  means?  " 

"I  have  no  data  yet.  It  is  a  capital  mistake  to 
theorize  before  one  has  data.  Insensibly  one  begins 
to  twist  facts  to  suit  theories,  instead  of  theories  to 
suit  facts.  But  the  note  itself — what  do  you  deduce 
from  it?" 

I  carefully  examined  the  writing,  and  the  paper 
upon  which  it  was  written. 

"The  man  who  wrote  it  was  presumably  well  to 
do,"  I  remarked,  endeavouring  to  imitate  my  com- 
panion's processes.  "Such  paper  could  not  be 
169 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

bought  under  half  a  crown  a  packet.  It  is  peculiarly 
strong  and  stiff." 

"Peculiar — that  is  the  very  word,"  said  Holmes. 
"It  is  not  an  English  paper  at  all.  Hold  it  up  to 
the  light." 

I  did  so,  and  saw  a  large  E  with  a  small  g,  a  P 
and  a  large  G  with  a  small  t  woven  into  the  texture 
of  the  paper. 

"What  do  you  make  of  that? "  asked  Holmes. 

"The  name  of  the  maker,  no  doubt;  or  his  mono- 
gram, rather." 

"Not  all.  The  G  with  the  small  t  stands  for 
' Gesellschaf t, '  which  is  the  German  for  'Company.' 
It  is  a  customary  contraction  like  our  'Co.'  P,  of 
course,  stands  for  'Papier.'  Now  for  the  Eg.  Let 
us  glance  at  our '  Continental  Gazetteer.' "  He  took 
down  a  heavy  brown  volume  from  his  shelves. 
"Eglow,  Eglonitz — here  we  are,  Egria.  It  is  in  a 
German-speaking  country — in  Bohemia,  not  far 
from  Carlsbad.  'Remarkable  as  being  the  scene 
of  the  death  of  Wallenstein,  and  for  its  numerous 
glass  factories  and  paper  mills.'  Ha!  ha!  my  boy, 
what  do  you  make  of  that?"  His  eyes  sparkled, 
and  he  sent  up  a  great  blue  triumphant  cloud  from 
his  cigarette. 

"The  paper  was  made  in  Bohemia, "  I  said. 

"Precisely.     And  the  man  who  wrote  the  note  is 

a  German.     Do  you  note  the  peculiar  construction 

of  the  sentence — '  This  account  of  you  we  have  from 

all  quarters  received'?    A  Frenchman  or  Russian 

170 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

could  not  have  written  that.  It  is  the  German  who 
is  so  uncourteous  to  his  verbs.  It  only  remains, 
therefore,  to  discover  what  is  wanted  by  this  German 
who  writes  upon  Bohemian  paper,  and  prefers  wear- 
ing a  mask  to  showing  his  face.  And  here  he  comes, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  to  resolve  all  our  doubts." 

As  he  spoke  there  was  the  sharp  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  and  grating  wheels  against  the  curb,  followed 
by  a  sharp  pull  at  the  bell.  Holmes  whistled. 

"A  pair,  by  the  sound,"  said  he.  "Yes,"  he 
continued,  glancing  out  of  the  window.  "A  nice 
little  brougham  and  a  pair  of  beauties.  A  hundred 
and  fifty  guineas  apiece.  There's  money  in  this  case, 
Watson,  if  there  is  nothing  else." 

"I  think  I  had  better  go,  Holmes." 

"Not  a  bit,  doctor.  Stay  where  you  are.  I  am 
lost  without  my  Boswell.  And  this  promises  to  be 
interesting.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  miss  it." 

"  But  your  client—  " 

"Never  mind  him.  I  may  want  your  help,  and  so 
may  he.  Here  he  comes.  Sit  down  in  that  arm- 
chair, doctor,  and  give  us  your  best  attention." 

A  slow  and  heavy  step,  which  had  been  heard 
upon  the  stairs  and  in  the  passage,  paused  immedi- 
ately outside  the  door.  Then  there  was  a  loud  and 
authoritative  tap. 

"Come  in!"  said  Holmes. 

A  man  entered  who  could  hardly  have  been  less 
than  six  feet  six  inches  in  height,  with  the  chest  and 
limbs  of  a  Hercules.    His  dress  was  rich  with  a  rich- 
171 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

ness  which  would,  in  England,  be  looked  upon  as 
akin  to  bad  taste.  Heavy  bands  of  astrakhan  were 
slashed  across  the  sleeves  and  front  of  his  double- 
breasted  coat,  while  the  deep  blue  cloak  which  was 
thrown  over  his  shoulders  was  lined  with  flame- 
coloured  silk,  and  secured  at  the  neck  with  a  brooch 
which  consisted  of  a  single  flaming  beryl.  Boots 
which  extended  halfway  up  his  calves,  and  which 
were  trimmed  at  the  tops  with  rich  brown  fur,  com- 
pleted the  impression  of  barbaric  opulence  which 
was  suggested  by  his  whole  appearance.  He  carried 
a  broad-brimmed  hat  in  his  hand,  while  he  wore 
across  the  upper  part  of  his  face,  extending  down 
past  the  cheek-bones,  a  black  visard  mask,  which  he 
had  apparently  adjusted  that  very  moment,  for  his 
hand  was  still  raised  to  it  as  he  entered.  From  the 
lower  part  of  the  face  be  appeared  to  be  a  man  of 
strong  character,  with  a  thick,  hanging  lip,  and  a 
long,  straight  chin,  suggestive  of  resolution  pushed 
to  the  length  of  obstinacy. 

"You  had  my  note?"  he  asked,  with  a  deep, 
harsh  voice  and  a  strongly  marked  German  accent. 
"I  told  you  that  I  would  call."  He  looked  from  one 
to  the  other  of  us,  as  if  uncertain  which  to  address. 

"Pray  take  a  seat,"  said  Holmes.  "This  is  my 
friend  and  colleague,  Doctor  Watson,  who  is  occa- 
sionally good  enough  to  help  me  in  my  cases.  Whom 
have  I  the  honour  to  address?  " 

"You  may  address  me  as  the  Count  von  Kramm, 
a  Bohemian  nobleman.  I  understand  that  this 
172 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

gentleman,  your  friend,  is  a  man  of  honour  and  dis- 
cretion, whom  I  may  trust  with  a  matter  of  the  most 
extreme  importance.  If  not  I  should  much  prefer 
to  communicate  with  you  alone." 

I  rose  to  go,  but  Holmes  caught  me  by  the  wrist 
and  pushed  me  back  into  my  chair.  "It  is  both,  or 
none,"  said  he.  "You  may  say  before  this  gentle- 
man anything  which  you  may  say  to  me." 

The  count  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders.  "Then 
I  must  begin,"  said  he,  "by  binding  you  both  to 
absolute  secrecy  for  two  years;  at  the  end  of 
that  time  the  matter  will  be  of  no  importance.  At 
present  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it  is  of  such 
weight  that  it  may  have  an  influence  upon  Euro- 
pean history." 

"I  promise,"  said  Holmes. 

"And  I." 

"You  will  excuse  this  mask,"  continued  our 
strange  visitor.  "The  august  person  who  employs 
me  wishes  his  agent  to  be  unknown  to  you,  and  I  may 
confess  at  once  that  the  title  by  which  I  have  just 
called  myself  is  not  exactly  my  own." 

"I  was  aware  of  it,"  said  Holmes,  dryly. 

"The  circumstances  are  of  great  delicacy,  and 
every  precaution  has  to  be  taken  to  quench  what 
might  grow  to  be  an  immense  scandal,  and  seriously 
compromise  one  of  the  reigning  families  of  Europe. 
To  speak  plainly,  the  matter  implicates  the  great 
House  of  Ormstein,  hereditary  kings  of  Bohemia." 

"I  was  also  aware  of  that,"  murmured  Holmes, 
173 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

settling  himself  down  in  his  armchair,  and  closing 
his  eyes. 

Our  visitor  glanced  with  some  apparent  surprise 
at  the  languid,  lounging  figure  of  the  man  who  had 
been,  no  doubt,  depicted  to  him  as  the  most  incisive 
reasoner  and  most  energetic  agent  in  Europe. 
Holmes  slowly  reopened  his  eyes  and  looked  im- 
patiently at  his  gigantic  client. 

"If  your  majesty  would  condescend  to  state  your 
case,"  he  remarked,  "I  should  be  better  able  to  ad- 
vise you." 

The  man  sprung  from  his  chair,  and  paced  up  and 
down  the  room  in  uncontrollable  agitation.  Then, 
with  a  gesture  of  desperation,  he  tore  the  mask  from 
his  face  and  hurled  it  upon  the  ground. 

"You  are  right,"  he  cried,  "I  am  the  king.  Why 
should  I  attempt  to  conceal  it?" 

"Why,  indeed?"  murmured  Holmes.  "Your 
majesty  had  not  spoken  before  I  was  aware  that  I 
was  addressing  Wilhelm  Gottsreich  Sigismond  von 
Ormstein,  Grand  Duke  of  Cassel-Felstein,  and  hered- 
itary King  of  Bohemia." 

"But  you  can  understand,"  said  our  strange 
visitor,  sitting  down  once  more  and  passing  his  hand 
over  his  high,  white  forehead,  "you  can  understand 
that  I  am  not  accustomed  to  doing  such  business  in 
my  own  person.  Yet  the  matter  was  so  delicate 
that  I  could  not  confide  it  to  an  agent  without  put- 
ting myself  in  his  power.  I  have  come  incognito 
from  Prague  for  the  purpose  of  consulting  you." 
174 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

"Then,  pray  consult,"  said  Holmes,  shutting  his 
eyes  once  more. 

"The  facts  are  briefly  these:  Some  five  years 
ago,  during  a  lengthy  visit  to  Warsaw,  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  well-known  adventuress 
Irene  Adler.  The  name  is  no  doubt  familiar  to 
you." 

"Kindly  look  her  up  in  my  index,  doctor,"  mur- 
mured Holmes,  without  opening  his  eyes.  For  many 
years  he  had  adopted  a  system  for  docketing  all 
paragraphs  concerning  men  and  things,  so  that  it 
was  difficult  to  name  a  subject  or  a  person  on  which 
he  could  not  at  once  furnish  information.  In  this 
case  I  found  her  biography  sandwiched  in  between 
that  of  a  Hebrew  rabbi  and  that  of  a  staff  commander 
who  had  written  a  monograph  upon  the  deep-sea 
fishes. 

"Let  me  see!"  said  Holmes.  "Hum!  Born  in 
New  Jersey  hi  the  year  1858.  Contralto — hum! 
La  Scala — hum!  Prima  donna  Imperial  Opera  of 
Warsaw — yes!  Retired  from  operatic  stage — ha! 
Living  in  London — quite  so!  Your  majesty,  as  I 
understand,  became  entangled  with  this  young  per- 
son, wrote  her  some  compromising  letters,  and  is 
now  desirous  of  getting  those  letters  back." 

"Precisely  so.    But  how — " 

"Was  there  a  secret  marriage?" 

"None." 

"No  legal  papers  or  certificates?" 

"None." 

175 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Then  I  fail  to  follow  your  majesty.  If  this  young 
person  should  produce  her  letters  for  blackmailing 
or  other  purposes,  how  is  she  to  prove  their  authen- 
ticity?" 

"There  is  the  writing." 

"Pooh-pooh!    Forgery." 

"My  private  note  paper." 

"Stolen." 

"My  own  seal." 

"Imitated." 

"My  photograph." 

"Bought." 

"We  were  both  in  the  photograph." 

"Oh,  dear!  That  is  very  bad.  Your  majesty  has 
indeed  committed  an  indiscretion." 

"I  was  mad — insane." 

"You  have  compromised  yourself  seriously." 

"I  was  only  crown  prince  then.  I  was  young. 
I  am  but  thirty  now." 

"It  must  be  recovered." 

"We  have  tried  and  failed." 

"Your  majesty  must  pay.    It  must  be  bought." 

"She  will  not  sell." 

"Stolen,  then."  / 

"  Five  attempts  have  been  made.  Twice  burglars 
in  my  pay  ransacked  her  house.  Once  we  diverted 
her  luggage  when  she  travelled.  Twice  she  has  been 
waylaid.  There  has  been  no  result." 

"No  sign  of  it?" 

"Absolutely  none." 

176 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

Holmes  laughed.  "It  is  quite  a  pretty  little  prob- 
lem," said  he. 

"  But  a  very  serious  one  to  me,"  returned  the  king, 
reproachfully. 

"Very,  indeed.  And  what  does  she  propose  to  do 
with  the  photograph?" 

"To  ruin  me." 

"But  how?" 

"I  am  about  to  be  married." 

"So  I  have  heard." 

"To  Clotilde  Lothman  von  Saxe-Meiningen,  sec- 
ond daughter  of  the  King  of  Scandinavia.  You  may 
know  the  strict  principles  of  her  family.  She  is  her- 
self the  very  soul  of  delicacy.  A  shadow  of  a  doubt 
as  to  my  conduct  would  bring  the  matter  to  an  end." 

"And  Irene  Adler?" 

"Threatens  to  send  them  the  photograph.  And 
she  will  do  it.  I  know  that  she  will  do  it.  You  do 
not  know  her,  but  she  has  a  soul  of  steel.  She  has 
the  face  of  the  most  beautiful  of  women  and  the 
mind  of  the  most  resolute  of  men.  Rather  than  I 
should  marry  another  woman,  there  are  no  lengths 
to  which  she  would  not  go — none." 

"You  are  sure  she  has  not  sent  it  yet?" 

"I  am  sure." 

"And  why?" 

"Because  she  has  said  that  she  would  send  it  on 
the  day  when  the  betrothal  was  publicly  proclaimed. 
That  will  be  next  Monday." 

"Oh,  then  we  have  three  days  yet,"  said  Holmes, 
177 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

with  a  yawn.  "That  is  very  fortunate,  as  I  have 
one  or  two  matters  of  importance  to  look  into  just 
at  present.  Your  majesty  will,  of  course,  stay  in 
London  for  the  present?  " 

,     "Certainly.    You  will  find  me  at  the  Langham, 
under  the  name  of  the  Count  von  Kramm." 

"Then  I  shall  drop  you  a  line  to  let  you  know  how 
we  progress." 

"Pray  do  so;  I  shall  be  all  anxiety." 

"Then,  as  to  money?" 

"You  have  carte  blanche" 

"Absolutely?" 

"I  tell  you  that  I  would  give  one  of  the  provinces 
ofjmy  kingdom  to  have  that  photograph." 

"And  for  present  expenses?  " 

The  king  took  a  heavy  chamois-leather  bag  from 
under  his  cloak,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"There  are  three  hundred  pounds  in  gold,  and 
seven  hundred  in  notes,"  he  said. 

Holmes  scribbled  a  receipt  upon  a  sheet  of  his 
notebook,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"And  mademoiselle's  address?"  he  asked. 

"Is  Briony  Lodge,  Serpentine  Avenue,  St.  John's 
Wood." 

Holmes  took  a  note  of  it.  "One  other  question," 
said  he,  thoughtfully.  "Was  the  photograph  a  cabi- 
net?" 

"It  was." 

"Then,  good-night,  your  majesty,  and  I  trust  that 
we  shall  soon  have  some  good  news  for  you.    And 
178 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

good-night,  Watson,"  he  added,  as  the  wheels  of  the 
royal  brougham  rolled  down  the  street.  "If  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  call  to-morrow  afternoon,  at 
three  o'clock,  I  should  like  to  chat  this  little  matter 
over  with  you." 


At  three  o'clock  precisely  I  was  at  Baker  Street, 
but  Holmes  had  not  yet  returned.  The  landlady 
informed  me  that  he  had  left  the  house  shortly  after 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  sat  down  beside  the 
fire,  however,  with  the  intention  of  awaiting  him, 
however  long  he  might  be.  I  was  already  deeply  in- 
terested in  his  inquiry,  for,  though  it  was  surrounded 
by  none  of  the  grim  and  strange  features  which  were 
associated  with  the  two  crimes  which  I  have  already 
recorded,  still,  the  nature  of  the  case  and  the  exalted 
station  of  his  client  gave  it  a  character  of  its  own. 
Indeed,  apart  from  the  nature  of  the  investigation 
which  my  friend  had  on  hand,  there  was  something 
in  his  masterly  grasp  of  a  situation,  and  his  keen, 
incisive  reasoning,  which  made  it  a  pleasure  to  me 
to  study  his  system  of  work,  and  to  follow  the  quick 
subtle  methods  by  which  he  disentangled  the  most 
inextricable  mysteries.  So  accustomed  was  I  to  his 
invariable  success  that  the  very  possibility  of  his 
failing  had  ceased  to  enter  into  my  head. 

It  was  close  upon  four  before  the  door  opened, 
and  a  drunken-looking  groom,  ill-kempt  and  side- 
whiskered,  with  an  inflamed  face  and  disreputable 
179 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

clothes,  walked  into  the  room.  Accustomed  as 
I  was  to  my  friend's  amazing  powers  in  the  use  of 
disguises,  I  had  to  look  three  times  before  I  was 
certain  that  it  was  indeed  he.  With  a  nod  he 
vanished  into  the  bedroom,  whence  he  emerged 
in  five  minutes  tweed-suited  and  respectable,  as  of 
old.  Putting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  he  stretched 
out  his  legs  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  laughed  heartily 
for  some  minutes. 

"Well,  really!"  he  cried,  and  then  he  choked,  and 
laughed  again  until  he  was  obliged  to  lie  back,  limp 
and  helpless,  in  the  chair. 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's  quite  too  funny.  I  am  sure  you  could 
never  guess  how  I  employed  my  morning,  or  what 
I  ended  by  doing." 

"I  can't  imagine.  I  suppose  that  you  have  been 
watching  the  habits,  and,  perhaps,  the  house,  of 
Miss  Irene  Adler." 

"Quite  so,  but  the  sequel  was  rather  unusual. 
I  will  tell  you,  however.  1  left  the  house  a  little 
after  eight  o'clock  this  morning  in  the  character  of 
a  groom  out  of  work.  There  is  a  wonderful  sym- 
pathy and  freemasonry  among  horsey  men.  Be 
one  of  them,  and  you  will  know  all  that  there  is  to 
know.  I  soon  found  Briony  Lodge.  It  is  a  bijou 
villa,  with  a  garden  at  the  back,  but  built  out  in  the 
front  right  up  to  the  road,'two  stories.  Chubb  lock 
to  the  door.  Large  sitting  room  on  the  right  side, 
well  furnished,  with  long  windows  almost  to  the 
180 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

floor,  and  those  preposterous  English  window  fast- 
eners which  a  child  could  open.  Behind  there  was 
nothing  remarkable,  save  that  the  passage  window 
could  be  reached  from  the  top  of  the  coach-house. 
I  walked  round  it  and  examined  it  closely  from  every 
point  of  view,  but  without  noting  anything  else  of 
interest. 

"I  then  lounged  down  the  street,  and  found,  as  I 
expected,  that  there  was  a  mews  in  a  lane  which 
runs  down  by  one  wall  of  the  garden.  I  lent  the 
hostlers  a  hand  hi  rubbing  down  then-  horses,  and  I 
received  in  exchange  two-pence,  a  glass  of  half  and 
half,  two  fills  of  shag  tobacco,  and  as  much  informa- 
tion as  I  could  desire  about  Miss  Adler,  to  say 
nothing  of  half  a  dozen  other  people  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, in  whom  I  was  not  in  the  least  interested, 
but  whose  biographies  I  was  compelled  to  listen  to." 

"And  what  of  Irene  Adler?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  she  has  turned  all  the  men's  heads  down  in 
that  part.  She  is  the  daintest  thing  under  a  bonnet 
on  this  planet.  So  say  the  Serpentine  Mews,  to  a 
man.  She  lives  quietly,  sings  at  concerts,  drives 
out  at  five  every  day,  and  returns  at  seven  sharp  for 
dinner.  Seldom  goes  out  at  other  times,  except 
when  she  sings.  Has  only  one  male  visitor,  but 
a  good  deal  of  him.  He  is  dark,  handsome,  and 
dashing;  never  calls  less  than  once  a  day,  and  often 
twice.  He  is  a  Mr.  Godfrey  Norton  of  the  Inner 
Temple.  See  the  advantages  of  a  cabman  as  a 
confidant.  They  had  driven  him  home  a  dozen 
181 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

times  from  Serpentine  Mews,  and  knew  all  about 
him.  When  I  had  listened  to  all  that  they  had  to 
tell,  I  began  to  walk  up  and  down  near  Briony  Lodge 
once  more,  and  to  think  over  my  plan  of  campaign. 

"This  Godfrey  Norton  was  evidently  an  important 
factor  in  the  matter.  He  was  a  lawyer.  That 
sounded  ominous.  What  was  the  relation  between 
them,  and  what  the  object  of  his  repeated  visits? 
Was  she  his  client,  his  friend,  or  his  mistress?  If 
the  former,  she  had  probably  transferred  the  photo- 
graph to  his  keeping.  If  the  latter,  it  was  less  likely. 
On  the  issue  of  this  question  depended  whether  I 
should  continue  my  work  at  Briony  Lodge,  or  turn 
my  attention  to  the  gentleman's  chambers  in  the 
Temple.  It  was  a  delicate  point,  and  it  widened 
the  field  of  my  inquiry.  I  fear  that  I  bore  you  with 
these  details,  but  I  have  to  let  you  see  my  little 
difficulties,  if  you  are  to  understand  the  situation." 

"I  am  following  you  closely,"  I  answered. 

"I  was  still  balancing  the  matter  in  my  mind, 
when  a  hansom  cab  drove  up  to  Briony  Lodge,  and 
a  gentleman  sprung  out.  He  was  a  remarkably 
handsome  man,  dark,  aquiline,  and  moustached — 
evidently  the  man  of  whom  I  had  heard.  He 
appeared  to  be  in  a  great  hurry,  shouted  to  the 
cabman  to  wait,  and  brushed  past  the  maid  who 
opened  the  door,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was 
thoroughly  at  home. 

"He  was  in  the  house  about  half  an  hour,  and  I 
could  catch  glimpses  of  him  in  the  windows  of  the 
182 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

sitting  room,  pacing  up  and  down,  talking  excitedly 
and  waving  his  arms.  Of  her  I  could  see  nothing. 
Presently  he  emerged,  looking  even  more  flurried 
than  before.  As  he  stepped  up  to  the  cab,  he  pulled 
a  gold  watch  from  his  pocket  and  looked  at  it  earnestly. 
'Drive  like  the  devil!'  he  shouted,  'first  to  Gross 
&  Hankey's  in  Regent  Street,  and  then  to  the  Church 
of  St.  Monica  in  the  Edgeware  Road.  Hah0  a  guinea 
if  you  do  it  in  twenty  minutes!' 

"Away  they  went,  and  I  was  just  wondering 
whether  I  should  not  do  well  to  follow  them,  when 
up  the  lane  came  a  neat  little  landau,  the  coachman 
with  his  coat  only  half  buttoned,  and  his  tie  under 
his  ear,  while  all  the  tags  of  his  harness  were  sticking 
out  of  the  buckles.  It  hadn't  pulled  up  before  she 
shot  out  of  the  hall  door  and  into  it.  I  only  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  at  the  moment,  but  she  was  a  lovely 
woman,  with  a  face  that  a  man  might  die  for. 

"'The  Church  of  St.  Monica,  John,'  she  cried; 
'and  half  a  sovereign  if  you  reach  it  in  twenty 
minutes.' 

"This  was  quite  too  good  to  lose,  Watson.  I  was 
just  balancing  whether  I  should  run  for  it,  or  whether 
I  should  perch  behind  her  landau,  when  a  cab  came 
through  the  street.  The  driver  looked  twice  at 
such  a  shabby  fare;  but  I  jumped  in  before  he  could 
object.  'The  Church  of  St.  Monica,'  said  I,  'and 
half  a  sovereign  if  you  reach  it  in  twenty  minutes.' 
It  was  twenty-five  minutes  to  twelve,  and  of  course 
it  was  clear  enough  what  was  in  the  wind. 
183 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"  My  cabby  drove  fast.  I  don't  think  I  ever  drove 
faster,  but  the  others  were  there  before  us.  The 
cab  and  landau  with  their  steaming  horses  were  in 
front  of  the  door  when  I  arrived.  I  paid  the  man, 
and  hurried  into  the  church.  There  was  not  a  soul 
there  save  the  two  whom  I  had  followed,  and  a  sur- 
pliced  clergyman,  who  seemed  to  be  expostulating 
with  them.  They  were  all  three  standing  in  a  knot 
in  front  of  the  altar.  I  lounged  up  the  side  aisle  like 
any  other  idler  who  has  dropped  into  a  church. 
Suddenly,  to  my  surprise,  the  three  at  the  altar 
faced  round  to  me,  and  Godfrey  Norton  came 
running  as  hard  as  he  could  toward  me. 

"'Thank  God!'  he  cried.  'You'll  do.  Come! 
Come!' 

"'What  then?' I  asked. 

"'Come,  man,  come;  only  three  minutes,  or  it 
won't  be  legal.' 

"I  was  half  dragged  up  to  the  altar,  and,  before  I 
knew  where  I  was,  I  found  myself  mumbling  re- 
sponses which  were  whispered  in  my  ear,  and  vouch- 
ing for  things  of  which  I  knew  nothing,  and  generally 
assisting  in  the  secure  tying  up  of  Irene  Adler, 
spinster,  to  Godfrey  Norton,  bachelor.  It  was  all 
done  in  an  instant,  and  there  was  the  gentleman 
thanking  me  on  the  one  side  and  the  lady  on  the 
other,  while  the  clergyman  beamed  on  me  in  front. 
It  was  the  most  preposterous  position  in  which  I 
ever  found  myself  in  my  life,  and  it  was  the  thought 
of  it  that  started  me  laughing  just  now.  It  seems 
184 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

that  there  had  been  some  informality  about  their 
license;  that  the  clergyman  absolutely  refused  to 
marry  them  without  a  witness  of  some  sort,  and 
that  my  lucky  appearance  saved  the  bridegroom 
from  having  to  sally  out  into  the  streets  in  search 
of  a  best  man.  The  bride  gave  me  a  sovereign,  and 
I  mean  to  wear  it  on  my  watch  chain  in  memory  of 
the  occasion." 

"This  is  a  very  unexpected  turn  of  affairs,"  said 
I;  "and  what  then?" 

"Well,  I  found  my  plans  very  seriously  menaced. 
It  looked  as  if  the  pair  might  take  an  immediate 
departure,  and  so  necessitate  very  prompt  and 
energetic  measures  on  my  part.  At  the  church  door, 
however,  they  separated,  he  driving  back  to  the 
Temple,  and  she  to  her  own  house.  'I  shall  drive 
out  in  the  park  at  five  as  usual, '  she  said,  as  she  left 
him.  I  heard  no  more.  They  drove  away  in 
different  directions,  and  I  went  off  to  make  my  own 
arrangements." 

"Which  are?" 

"  Some  cold  beef  and  a  glass  of  beer, "  he  answered, 
ringing  the  bell.  "I  have  been  too  busy  to  think  of 
food,  and  I  am  likely  to  be  busier  still  this  evening. 
By  the  way,  doctor,  I  shall  want  your  co-operation." 

"I  shall  be  delighted." 

"You  don't  mind  breaking  the  law?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"Nor  running  a  chance  of  arrest?" 

"Not  in  a  good  cause." 
185 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Oh,  the  cause  is  excellent!" 

"Then  I  am  your  man." 

"I  was  sure  that  I  might  rely  on  you." 

"  But  what  is  it  you  wish?  " 

"When  Mrs.  Turner  has  brought  in  the  tray  I  will 
make  it  clear  to  you.  Now,"  he  said,  as  he  turned 
hungrily  on  the  simple  fare  that  our  landlady  had 
provided,  "I  must  discuss  it  while  I  eat,  for  I  have 
not  much  time.  It  is  nearly  five  now.  In  two  hours 
we  must  be  on  the  scene  of  action.  Miss  Irene,  or 
Madame,  rather,  returns  from  her  drive  at  seven. 
We  must  be  at  Briony  Lodge  to  meet  her." 

"And  what  then?" 

"You  must  leave  that  to  me.  I  have  already 
arranged  what  is  to  occur.  There  is  only  one  point 
on  which  I  must  insist.  You  must  not  interfere, 
come  what  may.  You  understand?" 

"I  am  to  be  neutral?" 

"To  do  nothing  whatever.  There  will  probably 
be  some  small  unpleasantness.  Do  not  join  in  it. 
It  will  end  in  my  being  conveyed  into  the  house. 
Four  or  five  minutes  afterwards  the  sitting-room 
window  will  open.  You  are  to  station  yourself  close 
to  that  open  window." 

"Yes." 

"You  are  to  watch  me,  for  I  will  be  visible  to 
you." 

"Yes." 

"And  when  I  raise  my  hand — so — you  will  throw 
into  the  room  what  I  give  you  to  throw,  and  will, 
186 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

at  the  same  time,  raise  the  cry  of  fire.    You  quite 
follow  me?  " 

"Entirely." 

"It  is  nothing  very  formidable,"  he  said,  taking 
a  long,  cigar-shaped  roll  from  his  pocket.  "It  is  an 
ordinary  plumber's  smoke-rocket,  fitted  with  a  cap 
at  either  end,  to  make  it  self-lighting.  Your  task 
is  confined  to  that.  When  you  raise  your  cry  of 
fire,  it  will  be  taken  up  by  quite  a  number  of  people. 
You  may  then  walk  to  the  end  of  the  street,  and  I 
will  rejoin  you  in  ten  minutes.  I  hope  that  I  have 
made  myself  clear?  " 

"I  am  to  remain  neutral,  to  get  near  the  window, 
to  watch  you,  and,  at  the  signal,  to  throw  in  this 
object,  then  to  raise  the  cry  of  fire  and  to  wait  you 
at  the  corner  of  the  street." 

"Precisely." 

"Then  you  may  entirely  rely  on  me." 

"That  is  excellent.  I  think,  perhaps,  it  is  almost 
time  that  I  prepared  for  the  new  role  I  have  to  play." 

He  disappeared  into  his  bedroom,  and  returned  in  a 
few  minutes  hi  the  character  of  an  amiable  and  sim- 
ple-minded Nonconformist  clergyman.  His  broad 
black  hat,  his  baggy  trousers,  his  white  tie,  his 
sympathetic  smile,  and  general  look  of  peering  and 
benevolent  curiosity  were  such  as  Mr.  John  Hare 
alone  could  have  equalled.  It  was  not  merely  that 
Holmes  changed  his  costume.  His  expression,  his 
manner,  his  very  soul  seemed  to  vary  with  every 
fresh  part  that  he  assumed.  The  stage  lost  a  fine 
187 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

actor,  even  as  science  lost  an  acute  reasoner,  when 
he  became  a  specialist  in  crime. 

It  was  a  quarter  past  six  when  we  left  Baker 
Street,  and  it  still  wanted  ten  minutes  to  the  hour 
when  we  found  ourselves  in  Serpentine  Avenue. 
It  was  already  dusk,  and  the  lamps  were  just  being 
lighted  as  we  paced  up  and  down  in  front  of  Briony 
Lodge,  waiting  for  the  coming  of  its  occupant.  The 
house  was  just  such  as  I  had  pictured  it  from  Sher- 
lock Holmes's  succinct  description,  but  the  locality 
appeared  to  be  less  private  than  I  expected.  On 
the  contrary,  for  a  small  street  hi  a  quiet  neighbour- 
hood, it  was  remarkably  animated.  There  was  a 
group  of  shabbily  dressed  men  smoking  and  laughing 
in  a  corner,  a  scissors-grinder  with  his  wheel,  two 
guardsmen  who  were  flirting  with  a  nurse-girl,  and 
several  well-dressed  young  men  who  were  lounging 
up  and  down  with  cigars  in  their  mouths. 

"You  see,"  remarked  Holmes,  as  we  paced  to  and 
fro  in  front  of  the  house,  "this  marriage  rather 
simplifies  matters.  The  photograph  becomes  a 
double-edged  weapon  now.  The  chances  are  that 
she  would  be  as  averse  to  its  being  seen  by  Mr. 
Godfrey  Norton  as  our  client  is  to  its  coming  to  the 
eyes  of  his  princess.  Now  the  question  is — where 
are  we  to  find  the  photograph?" 

"Where,  indeed?" 

"It  is  most  unlikely  that  she  carries  it  about  with 
her.    It  is  cabinet  size.    Too  large  for  easy  conceal- 
ment about  a  woman's  dress.    She  knows  that  the 
188 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

king  is  capable  of  having  her  waylaid  and  searched* 
Two  attempts  of  the  sort  have  already  been  made. 
We  may  take  it,  then,  that  she  does  not  carry  it 
about  with  her." 

"Where,  then?" 

"Her  banker  or  her  lawyer.  There  is  that  double 
possibility.  But  I  am  inclined  to  think  neither. 
Women  are  naturally  secretive,  and  they  like  to  do 
their  own  secreting.  Why  should  she  hand  it  over 
to  anyone  else?  She  could  trust  her  own  guardian- 
ship, but  she  could  not  tell  what  indirect  or  political 
influence  might  be  brought  to  bear  upon  a  business 
man.  Besides,  remember  that  she  had  resolved  to 
use  it  within  a  few  days.  It  must  be  where  she  can 
lay  her  hands  upon  it.  It  must  be  in  her  own 
house." 

"But  it  has  twice  been  burglarized." 

"Pshaw!    They  did  not  know  how  to  look." 

"But  how  will  you  look?" 

"I  will  not  look." 

"What  then?" 

"I  will  get  her  to  show  me." 

"But  she  will  refuse." 

"  She  will  not  be  able  to.  But  I  hear  the  rumble  of 
wheels.  It  is  her  carriage.  Now  carry  out  my 
orders  to  the  letter." 

As  he  spoke,  the  gleam  of  the  sidelights  of  a  carriage 

(came  round  the  curve  of  the  avenue.    It  was  a 
smart  little  landau  which  rattled  up  to  the  door  of 
Briony  Lodge.    As  it  pulled  up  one  of  the  loafing 
189 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

men  at  the  corner  dashed  forward  to  open  the  door 
in  the  hope  of  earning  a  copper,  but  was  elbowed 
away  by  another  loafer  who  had  rushed  up  with  the 
same  intention.  A  fierce  quarrel  broke  out  which 
was  increased  by  the  two  guardsmen,  who  took  sides 
with  one  of  the  loungers,  and  by  the  scissors  grinder, 
who  was  equally  hot  upon  the  other  side.  A  blow 
was  struck,  and  in  an  instant  the  lady,  who  had 
stepped  from  her  carriage,  was  the  centre  of  a  little 
knot  of  struggling  men  who  struck  savagely  at  each 
other  with  their  fists  and  sticks.  Holmes  dashed 
into  the  crowd  to  protect  the  lady;  but,  just  as  he 
reached  her,  he  gave  a  cry  and  dropped  to  the  ground, 
with  the  blood  running  freely  down  his  face.  At  his 
fall  the  guardsmen  took  to  then:  heels  in  one  direction 
and  the  loungers  in  the  other,  while  a  number  of 
better-dressed  people  who  had  watched  the  scuffle 
without  taking  part  in  it  crowded  in  to  help  the  lady 
and  to  attend  to  the  injured  man.  Irene  Adler,  as 
I  will  still  call  her,  had  hurried  up  the  steps;  but 
she  stood  at  the  top,  with  her  superb  figure  outlined 
against  the  lights  of  the  hall,  looking  back  into  the 
street. 

"Is  the  poor  gentleman  much  hurt?"  she  asked. 

"He  is  dead, "  cried  several  voices. 

"No,  no,  there's  life  in  him,"  shouted  another. 
"But  he'll  be  gone  before  you  can  get  him  to  the 
hospital." 

"He's  a  brave  fellow,"  said  the  woman.     "They 
would  have  had  the  lady's  purse  and  watch  if  it 
190 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

hadn't  been  for  him.    They  were  a  gang,  and  a 
rough  one,  too.    Ah!  he's  breathing  now." 

"He  can't  lie  in  the  street.  May  we  bring  him  in, 
marm?" 

"Surely.  Bring  him  into  the  sitting-room.  There 
is  a  comfortable  sofa.  This  way,  please."  Slowly 
and  solemnly  he  was  borne  into  Briony  Lodge,  and 
laid  out  in  the  principal  room,  while  I  still  observed 
the  proceedings  from  my  post  by  the  window.  The 
lamps  had  been  lighted,  but  the  blinds  had  not  been 
drawn,  so  that  I  could  see  Holmes  as  he  lay  upon  the 
couch.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  was  seized  with 
compunction  at  that  moment  for  the  part  he  was 
playing,  but  I  know  that  I  never  felt  more  heartily 
ashamed  of  myself  in  my  life  than  when  I  saw  the 
beautiful  creature  against  whom  I  was  conspiring,  or 
the  grace  and  kindliness  with  which  she  waited  upon 
the  injured  man.  And  yet  it  would  be  the  blackest 
treachery  to  Holmes  to  draw  back  now  from  the  part 
which  he  had  intrusted  to  me.  I  hardened  my 
heart,  and  took  the  smoke-rocket  from  under  my 
ulster.  After  all,  I  thought,  we  are  not  injuring  her. 
We  are  but  preventing  her  from  injuring  another. 

Holmes  had  sat  upon  the  couch,  and  I  saw  him 
motion  like  a  man  who  is  in  need  of  air.  A  maid 
rushed  across  and  threw  open  the  window.  At  the 
same » instant  I  saw  him  raise  his  hand,  and  at  the 
signal  I  tossed  my  rocket  into  the  room  with  a  cry  of 
" Fire!"  The  word  was  no  sooner  out  of  my  mouth 
than  the  whole  crowd  of  spectators,  well  dressed 
191 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

and  ill — gentlemen,  hostlers,  and  servant  maids — 
joined  in  a  general  shriek  of  "Fire!"  Thick  clouds 
of  smoke  curled  through  the  room,  and  out  at  the 
open  window.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  rushing  figures, 
and  a  moment  later  the  voice  of  Holmes  from  within 
assuring  them  that  it  was  a  false  alarm.  Slipping 
through  the  shouting  crowd,  I  made  my  way  to  the 
corner  of  the  street,  and  in  ten  minutes  was  rejoiced 
to  find  my  friend's  arm  in  mine,  and  to  get  away 
from  the  scene  of  uproar.  He  walked  swiftly  and  in 
silence  for  some  few  minutes,  until  we  had  turned 
down  one  of  the  quiet  streets  which  led  toward  the 
Edgeware  Road. 

"You  did  it  very  nicely,  doctor,"  he  remarked. 
"Nothing  could  have  been  better.  It  is  all  right." 

"You  have  the  photograph?" 

"I  know  where  it  is." 

"And  how  did  you  find  out?" 

"  She  showed  me,  as  I  told  you  that  she  would." 

"I  am  still  in  the  dark." 

"I  do  not  wish  to  make  a  mystery,"  said  he, 
laughing.  "  The  matter  was  perfectly  simple.  You, 
of  course,  saw  that  everyone  in  the  street  was  an 
accomplice.  They  were  all  engaged  for  the  evening." 

"I  guessed  as  much." 

"Then,  when  the  row  broke  out,  I  had  a  little 
moist  red  paint  in  the  palm  of  my  hand.  I  rushed 
forward,  fell  down,  clapped  my  hand  to  my  face,  and 
became  a  piteous  spectacle.  It  is  an  old  trick." 

"That  also  I  could  fathom." 
192 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

"Then  they  carried  me  in.  She  was  bound  to 
have  me  in.  What  else  could  she  do?  And  into  her 
sitting  room,  which  was  the  very  room  which  I 
suspected.  It  lay  between  that  and  her  bedroom, 
and  I  was  determined  to  see  which.  They  laid  me 
on  a  couch,  I  motioned  for  air,  they  were  compelled 
to  open  the  window,  and  you  had  your  chance." 

"How  did  that  help  you?" 

"It  was  all-important.  When  a  woman  thinks 
that  her  house  is  on  fire,  her  instinct  is  at  once  to 
rush  to  the  thing  which  she  values  most.  It  is  a 
perfectly  overpowering  impulse,  and  I  have  more 
than  once  taken  advantage  of  it.  In  the  case  of  the 
Darlington  Substitution  Scandal  it  was  of  use  to  me, 
and  also  in  the  Arnsworth  Castle  business.  A 
married  woman  grabs  at  her  baby — an  unmarried 
one  reaches  for  her  jewel  box.  Now  it  was  clear  to 
me  that  our  lady  of  to-day  had  nothing  in  the  house 
more  precious  to  her  than  what  we  are  in  quest  of. 
She  would  rush  to  secure  it.  The  alarm  of  fire  was 
admirably  done.  The  smoke  and  shouting  were 
enough  to  shake  nerves  of  steel.  She  responded 
beautifully.  The  photograph  is  in  a  recess  behind  a 
sliding  panel  just  above  the  right  bell-pull.  She 
was  there  in  an  instant,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
it  as  she  drew  it  out.  When  I  cried  out  that  it  was  a 
false  alarm,  she  replaced  it,  glanced  at  the  rocket, 
rushed  from  the  room,  and  I  have  not  seen  her  since. 
I  rose,  and,  making  my  excuses,  escaped  from  the 
house.  I  hesitated  whether  to  attempt  to  secure 
193 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

the  photograph  at  once;  but  the  coachman  had  come 
in,  and  as  he  was  watching  me  narrowly,  it  seemed 
safer  to  wait.  A  little  over-precipitance  may  ruin 
all." 

"And  now?  "I  asked. 

"Our  quest  is  practically  finished.  I  shall  call 
with  the  king  to-morrow,  and  with  you,  if  you  care 
to  come  with  us.  We  will  be  shown  into  the  sitting 
room  to  wait  for  the  lady,  but  it  is  probable  that 
when  she  comes  she  may  find  neither  us  nor  the 
photograph.  It  might  be  a  satisfaction  to  his 
majesty  to  regain  it  with  his  own  hands." 

"And  when  will  you  call?" 

"At  eight  in  the  morning.  She  will  not  be  up,  so 
that  we  shall  have  a  clear  field.  Besides,  we  must 
be  prompt,  for  this  marriage  may  mean  a  complete 
change  in  her  lif e  and  habits.  I  must  wire  to  the 
king  without  delay." 

We  had  reached  Baker  Street,  and  had  stopped  at 
the  door.  He  was  searching  his  pockets  for  the  key 
when  someone  passing  said: 

"  Good  night,  Mister  Sherlock  Holmes." 

There  were  several  people  on  the  pavement  at  the 
time,  but  the  greeting  appeared  to  come  from  a  slim 
youth  in  an  ulster  who  had  hurried  by. 

"I've  heard  that  voice  before,"  said  Holmes 
staring  down  the  dimly  lighted  street.  "Now,  I 
I  wonder  who  the  deuce  that  could  have  been?  " 


194 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

ni 

I  slept  at  Baker  Street  that  night,  and  we  were 
engaged  upon  our  toast  and  coffee  in  the  morning, 
when  the  King  of  Bohemia  rushed  into  the 
room. 

"You  have  really  got  it? "  he  cried,  grasping  Sher- 
lock Holmes  by  either  shoulder,  and  looking  eagerly 
into  his  face. 

"Not  yet." 

"But  you  have  hopes?" 

"I  have  hopes." 

"Then  come.    I  am  all  impatience  to  be  gone." 

"We  must  have  a  cab." 

"No,  my  brougham  is  waiting." 

"Then  that  will  simplify  matters."  We  descended, 
and  started  off  once  more  for  Briony  Lodge. 

"Irene  Adler  is  married,"  remarked  Holmes. 

"Married!    When?" 

"Yesterday." 

"But  to  whom?" 

"To  an  English  lawyer  named  Norton." 

"But  she  could  not  love  him." 

"I  am  in  hopes  that  she  does." 

"  And  why  in  hopes?  " 

"  Because  it  would  spare  your  majesty  all  fear  of 
future  annoyance.  If  the  lady  loves  her  husband, 
she  does  not  love  your  majesty.  If  she  does  not  love 
your  majesty,  there  is  no  reason  why  she  should 
interfere  with  your  majesty's  plan." 
195 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"It  is  true.  And  yet —  Well,  I  wish  she  had 
been  of  my  own  station.  What  a  queen  she  would 
have  made!"  He  relapsed  into  a  moody  silence, 
which  was  not  broken  until  we  drew  up  in  Serpentine 
Avenue. 

The  door  of  Briony  Lodge  was  open,  and  an 
elderly  woman  stood  upon  the  steps.  She  watched 
us  with  a  sardonic  eye  as  we  stepped  from  the 
brougham. 

"Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes,  I  believe?"  said  she. 

"I  am  Mr.  Holmes,"  answered  my  companion, 
looking  at  her  with  a  questioning  and  rather  star- 
tled gaze. 

"Indeed!  My  mistress  told  me  that  you  were 
likely  to  call.  She  left  this  morning  with  her  hus- 
band by  the  5:15  train  from  Charing  Cross  for  the 
Continent." 

"  What ! "  Sherlock  Holmes  staggered  back,  white 
with  chagrin  and  surprise.  "Do  you  mean  that  she 
has  left  England?" 

"Never  to  return." 

"And  the  papers?"  asked  the  King,  hoarsely. 
"All  is  lost." 

"We  shall  see."  He  pushed  past  the  servant  and 
rushed  into  the  drawing-room,  followed  by  the 
King  and  myself.  The  furniture  was  scattered 
about  in  every  direction,  with  dismantled  shelves 
and  open  drawers,  as  if  the  lady  had  hurriedly  ran- 
sacked them  before  her  flight.  Holmes  rushed  at 
the  bell-pull,  tore  back  a  small  sliding  shutter,  and, 
196 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

plunging  in  his  hand,  pulled  out  a  photograph  and 
a  letter.  The  photograph  was  of  Irene  Adler  her- 
self in  evening  dress,  the  letter  was  superscribed  to 
"Sherlock  Holmes,  Esq.  To  be  left  till  called  for." 
My  friend  tore  it  open,  and  we  all  three  read  it 
together.  It  was  dated  at  midnight  of  the  preced- 
ing night,  and  ran  in  this  way: 

"My  dear  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes, — You  really  did  it  very 
well.  You  took  me  in  completely.  Until  after  the  alarm  of 
fire,  I  had  not  a  suspicion.  But  then,  when  I  found  how  I 
had  betrayed  myself,  I  began  to  think.  I  had  been  warned 
against  you  months  ago.  I  had  been  told  that,  if  the  King 
employed  an  agent,  it  would  certainly  be  you.  And  your 
address  had  been  given  me.  Yet,  with  all  this,  you  made 
me  reveal  what  you  wanted  to  know.  Even  after  I  became 
suspicious,  I  found  it  hard  to  think  evil  of  such  a  dear,  kind 
old  clergyman.  But,  you  know,  I  have  been  trained  as  an 
actress  myself.  Male  costume  is  nothing  new  to  me.  I  often 
take  advantage  of  the  freedom  which  it  gives.  I  sent  John, 
the  coachman,  to  watch  you,  ran  up-stairs,  got  into  my 
walking  clothes,  as  I  call  them,  and  came  down  just  as  you 
departed. 

"  Well,  I  followed  you  to  your  door,  and  so  made  sure  that 
I  was  really  an  object  of  interest  to  the  celebrated  Mr.  Sher- 
lock Holmes.  Then  I,  rather  imprudently,  wished  you  good- 
night, and  started  for  the  Temple  to  see  my  husband. 

"We  both  thought  the  best  resource  was  flight,  when  pur- 
sued by  so  formidable  an  antagonist;  so  you  will  find  the  nest 
empty  when  you  call  to-morrow.  As  to  the  photograph,  your 
client  may  rest  in  peace.  I  love  and  am  loved  by  a  better 
man  than  he.  The  King  may  do  what  he  will  without  hin- 
drance from  one  whom  he  has  cruelly  wronged.  I  keep  it 
only  to  safeguard  myself,  and  to  preserve  a  weapon  which 
197 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

will  always  secure  me  from  any  steps  which  he  might  take  in 
the  future.  I  leave  a  photograph  which  he  might  care  to 
possess;  and  I  remain,  dear  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes,  very  truly 
yours, 

"Irene  Norton,  nte  Adler." 

"What  a  woman — oh,  what  a  woman!"  cried  the 
King  of  Bohemia,  when  we  had  all  three  read  this 
epistle.  "Did  I  not  tell  you  how  quick  and  reso- 
lute she  was?  Would  she  not  have  made  an  admir- 
able queen?  Is  it  not  a  pity  that  she  was  not  on 
my  level?" 

"From  what  I  have  seen  of  the  lady  she  seems 
indeed  to  be  on  a  very  different  level  to  your  Maj- 
esty," said  Holmes,  coldly.  "I  am  sorry  that  I 
have  not  been  able  to  bring  your  Majesty's  busi- 
ness to  a  more  successful  conclusion." 

"On  the  contrary,  my  dear  sir,"  cried  the  King; 
"nothing  could  be  more  successful.  I  know  that 
her  word  is  inviolate.  The  photograph  is  now  as 
safe  as  if  it  were  in  the  fire." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  your  Majesty  say  so." 

"I  am  immensely  indebted  to  you.  Pray  tell  me 
in  what  way  I  can  reward  you.  This  ring—"  He 
slipped  an  emerald  snake  ring  from  his  finger  and 
held  it  out  upon  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"Your  Majesty  has  something  which  I  should 
value  even  more  highly,"  said  Holmes. 

"You  have  but  to  name  it." 

"This  photograph!" 

The  King  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 
198 


A  Scandal  in  Bohemia 

"Irene's  photograph!"  he  cried.  "Certainly,  if 
you  wish  it." 

"I  thank  your  Majesty.  Then  there  is  no  more 
to  be  done  in  the  matter.  I  have  the  honour  to  wish 
you  a  very  good-morning."  He  bowed,  and,  turn- 
ing away  without  observing  the  hand  which  the 
King  had  stretched  out  to  him,  he  set  off  in  my 
company  for  his  chambers. 

And  that  was  how  a  great  scandal  threatened  to 
affect  the  kingdom  of  Bohemia,  and  how  the  best 
plans  of  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes  were  beaten  by  a 
woman's  wit.  He  used  to  make  merry  over  the 
cleverness  of  women,  but  I  have  not  heard  him  do 
it  of  late.  And  when  he  speaks  of  Irene  Adler,  or 
when  he  refers  to  her  photograph,  it  is  always  under 
the  honourable  title  of  the  woman. 


199 


VI 

THE  ROPE  OF  FEAR* 
MARY  E.  AND  THOMAS  W.  HANSHEW 

IF  you  know  anything  of  the  country  of  West- 
moreland, you  will  know  the  chief  market-town 
of  Merton  Sheppard,  and  if  you  know  Merton 
Sheppard,  you  will  know  there  is  only  one  important 
building  in  that  town  besides  the  massive  Town 
Hall,  and  that  building  is  the  Westmoreland  Union 
Bank — a  private  concern,  well  backed  by  every 
wealthy  magnate  in  the  surrounding  district,  and 
patronized  by  everyone  from  the  highest  to  the  low- 
est degree. 

Anybody  will  point  the  building  out  to  you,  firstly 
because  of  its  imposing  exterior,  and  secondly  be- 
cause everyone  in  the  whole  county  brings  his  money 
to  Mr.  Naylor-Brent,  to  do  with  it  what  he  wills. 
For  Mr.  Naylor-Brent  is  the  manager,  and  besides 
being  known  far  and  wide  for  his  integrity,  his  up- 
rightness of  purpose,  and  his  strict  sense  of  justice, 
he  acts  to  the  poorer  inhabitants  of  Merton  Sheppard 
as  a  sort  of  father-confessor  in  all  their  troubles, 
both  of  a  social  and  a  financial  character. 

It  was  toward  the  last  oi  September  that  the  big 

*  From  Short  Stones. — Dec.,  1919. 

200 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

robbery  happened,  and  upon  one  sunny  afternoon 
at  the  end  of  that  month  Mr.  Naylor-Brent  was 
pacing  the  narrow  confines  of  his  handsomely  ap- 
pointed room  in  the  bank,  visibly  disturbed.  That 
he  was  awaiting  the  arrival  of  someone  was  evident 
by  his  frequent  glances  at  the  marble  clock  which 
stood  upon  the  mantel-shelf,  and  which  bore  across 
its  base  a  silver  plate  upon  which  were  inscribed  the 
names  of  some  fifteen  or  more  "grateful  customers" 
whose  money  had  passed  successfully  through  his 
managerial  hands. 

At  length  the  door  opened,  after  a  discreet  knock 
upon  its  oaken  panels,  and  an  old,  bent,  and  almost 
decrepit  clerk  ushered  in  the  portly  figure  of  Mr. 
Maverick  Narkom,  Superintendent  of  Scotland 
Yard,  followed  by  a  heavily-built,  dull-looking  per- 
son in  navy  blue. 

Mr.  Naylor-Brent's  good-looking,  rugged  face 
took  on  an  expression  of  the  keenest  relief. 

"Mr.  Narkom  himself!  This  is  indeed  more  than 
I  expected ! "  he  said  with  extended  hand.  "  We  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  once  in  London,  some  years 
ago.  Perhaps  you  have  forgotten — ?  " 

Mr.  Narkom's  bland  face  wrinkled  into  a  smile  of 
appreciation. 

"Oh  no,  I  haven't,"  he  returned  pleasantly,  "I 
remember  quite  distinctly.  I  decided  to  answer  your 
letter  in  person,  and  bring  with  me  one  of  my  best 
men — friend  and  colleague,  you  know — Mr.  George 
Headland." 

201 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir.  And  if  you'll  both  sit 
down  we  can  go  into  the  matter  at  once.  That's  a 
comfortable  chair  over  there,  Mr.  Headland." 

They  seated  themselves,  and  Mr.  Narkom,  clear- 
ing his  throat,  proceeded  in  his  usual  official  manner 
to  "take  the  floor." 

"I  understand  from  headquarters,"  said  he,  "that 
you  have  had  an  exceptionally  large  deposit  of  bank- 
notes sent  up  from  London  for  payments  in  connec- 
tion with  your  new  canal.  Isn't  that  so,  Mr.  Brent? 
I  trust  the  trouble  you  mentioned  in  your  letter  has 
nothing  to  do  with  this  money." 

Mr.  Naylor-Brent's  face  paled  considerably, 
and  his  voice  had  an  anxious  note  in  it  when  he 
spoke. 

"Gad,  sir,  but  it  has!"  he  ejaculated.  "That's 
the  trouble  itself.  Every  single  banknote  is  gone. 
£200,000  is  gone  and  not  a  trace  of  it!  Heaven  only 
knows  what  I'm  going  to  do  about  it,  Mr.  Narkom, 
but  that's  how  the  matter  stands.  Every  penny  is 
gone" 

"Gone!" 

Mr.  Narkom  drew  out  a  red  silk  handkerchief 
and  wiped  his  forehead  vigorously — a  sure  sign  of 
nervous  excitement — while  Mr.  Headland  exclaimed 
loudly,  "Well,  I'm  hanged!" 

"Someone  certainly  will  be,"  rapped  out  Mr. 
Brent  sharply.    "  For  not  only  have  the  notes  van- 
ished, but  I've  lost  the  best  night-watchman  I  ever 
had,  a  good,  trustworthy  man — " 
202 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

"Lost  him?"  put  in  Mr.  Headland  curiously. 
"What  exactly  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Brent? 
Did  he  vanish  with  the  notes?" 

"What?  Will  Simmons?  Never  in  this  world! 
He's  not  that  kind.  The  man  that  offered  Will 
Simmons  a  bribe  to  betray  his  trust  would  answer 
for  it  with  his  life.  A  more  faithful  servant,  or  better 
fellow  never  drew  breath.  No  it's  dead  he  is,  Mr. 
Headland,  and — I  can  hardly  speak  of  it  yet!  I 
feel  so  much  to  blame  for  putting  him  on  the  job  at 
all,  but  you  see  we've  had  a  regular  series  of  petty 
thefts  lately;  small  sums  unable  to  be  accounted  for, 
safes  opened  in  the  most  mysterious  manner,  and 
money  abstracted — though  never  any  large  sums 
fortunately — even  the  clerks'  coats  had  not  been 
left  untouched.  I  have  had  a  constant  watch  kept, 
but  all  in  vain.  So,  naturally,  when  this  big  de- 
posit came  to  hand  on  Tuesday  morning,  I  deter- 
mined that  special  precautions  should  be  taken  at 
night,  and  put  poor  old  Simmons  down  in  the  vault 
with  the  bank's  watchdog  for  company.  That  was 
the  last  time  I  saw  him  alive !  He  was  found  writh- 
ing in  convulsions  and  by  the  time  that  the  doctor 
arrived  upon  the  scene  he  was  dead;  the  safe  was 
found  open,  and  every  note  was  gone!" 

"Bad  business  indeed!"  declared  Mr.  Headland 
with  a  shake  of  the  head.  "No  idea  as  to  the  cause 
of  death,  Mr.  Brent?  What  was  the  doctor's 
verdict?" 

Mr.  Naylor-Brent's  face  clouded. 
203 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"That's  the  very  dickens  of  it,  he  didn't  quite 
know.  Said  it  was  evidently  a  case  of  poisoning, 
but  was  unable  to  decide  further,  or  to  find  out  what 
sort  of  poison — if  any — had  been  used." 

"Hmm.  I  see.  And  what  did  the  local  police 
say?  Have  they  found  any  clues  yet?  " 

The  manager  flushed,  and  he  gave  vent  to  a 
forced  laugh. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  responded,  "the  local 
police  know  nothing  about  it.  I  have  kept  the  loss 
an  entire  secret  until  I  could  call  in  the  help  of 
Scotland  Yard." 

"A  secret,  Mr.  Brent,  with  such  a  loss!"  ejacu- 
lated Mr.  Narkom.  "That's  surely  an  unusual 
course  to  pursue.  When  a  bank  loses  such  a  large 
sum  of  money,  and  in  banknotes — the  most  easily 
handled  commodity  in  the  world — and  in  addition 
a  mysterious  murder  takes  place,  one  would  naturally 
expect  that  the  first  act  would  be  to  call  in  the 
officers  of  the  law,  that  is — unless — I  see — " 

"Well,  it's  more  than  I  do!"  responded  Mr. 
Brent  sadly.  "Do  you  see  any  light,  however?" 

"Hardly  that.  But  it  stands  to  reason  that  if 
you  are  prepared  to  make  good  the  loss — a  course 
to  which  there  seems  no  alternative — there  is  an 
obvious  possibility  that  you  yourself  have  some 
faint  idea  as  to  who  the  criminal  is,  and  are  anxious 
that  your  suspicions  should  not  be  verified." 

Mr.  Headland  (otherwise  Cleek)  looked  at  his 
friend  with  considerable  admiration  shining  in  his 
204 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

eyes.  "Beginning  to  use  his  old  head  at  last!"  he 
thought  as  he  watched  the  Superintendent's  keen 
face.  "Well,  well,  it's  never  too  late  to  mend,  any- 
how." And  then  aloud,  "Exactly  my  thought. 
Mr.  Narkom.  Perhaps  Mr.  Brent  could  enlighten 
us  as  to  his  own  suspicions,  for  I'm  positive  that  he 
has  some  tucked  away  somewhere  in  his  mind." 

"Jove,  if  you're  not  almost  supernatural,  Mr. 
Headland!"  returned  that  gentleman  with  a  heavy 
sigh.  "You  have  certainly  unearthed  something 
which  I  thought  was  hidden  only  in  my  own  soul. 
That  is  exactly  the  reason  I  have  kept  silent;  my 
suspicions  were  I  to  voice  them,  might — er — drag 
the  person  accused  still  deeper  into  the  mire  of  his 
own  foolishness.  There's  Patterson,  for  instance, 
he  would  arrest  him  on  sight  without  the  slightest 
compunction." 

"Patterson?"  threw  in  Cleek  quickly.  "Patter- 
son— the  name's  familiar.  Don't  suppose  though, 
that  it  would  be  the  same  one — it  is  a  common 
enough  name.  Company  promoter  who  made  a 
pile  on  copper,  the  first  year  of  the  war,  and  retired 
with  'the  swag' — to  put  it  brutally.  'Tisn't  that 
chap  I  suppose?" 

"The  identical  man!"  returned  Mr.  Brent, 
excitedly.  "He  came  here  some  five  years  ago, 
bought  up  Mount  Morris  Court— a  fine  place  having 
a  view  of  the  whole  town — and  he  has  lately  started 
to  run  an  opposition  bank  to  ours,  doing  everything 
in  his  power  to  overthrow  my  position  here.  It's — 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

it's  spite  I  believe,  against  myself  as  well  as  George. 
The  young  fool  had  the  impudence  to  ask  his  daugh- 
ter's hand,  and  what  was  more,  ran  off  with  her  and 
they  were  married,  which  increased  Patterson's 
hatred  of  us  both  almost  to  insanity." 

" Hmm.    I  see, "  said  Cleek.     "Who  is  George? " 

"My  stepson,  Mr.  Headland — unfortunately  for 
me — my  late  wife's  boy  by  her  first  marriage.  I 
have  to  admit  it  regretfully  enough,  he  was  the 
cause  of  his  mother's  death.  He  literally  broke  her 
heart  by  his  wild  living,  and  I  was  only  too  glad  to 
give  him  a  small  allowance — which  however  helped 
him  with  his  unhappy  marriage — and  hoped  to  see 
the  last  of  George  Barrington." 

Cleek  twitched  up  an  inquiring  eyebrow. 

"Unhappy,  Mr.  Brent?"  he  queried.  "But  I 
understood  from  you  a  moment  ago  it  was  a  love 
match." 

"In  the  beginning  it  was  purely  a  question  of 
love,  Mr.  Headland,"  responded  the  manager 
gravely.  "But  as  you  know,  when  poverty  comes 
in  at  the  door,  love  sometimes  flies  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  from  all  accounts,  the  late  Miss  Patterson 
never  ceases  to  regret  the  day  she  became  Mrs. 
George  Barrineton.  George  has  been  hanging 
about  here  this  last  week  or  two,  and  I  noticed  him 
trying  to  renew  acquaintance  with  old  Simmons 
only  a  day  or  two  ago  in  the  bar  of  the  Rose  and 
Anchor.  He — he  was  also  seen  prowling  round  the 
bank  on  Tuesday  night.  So  now  you  know  why 
206 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

I  was  loath  to  set  the  ball  rolling;  old  man  Patterson 
would  lift  the  sky  to  get  the  chance  to  have  that 
young  waster  imprisoned,  to  say  nothing  of  defaming 
my  personal  character  at  the  same  time. 

"Sooner  than  that  I  must  endeavour  to  raise 
sufficient  money  by  private  means  to  replace  the 
notes — but  the  death  of  old  Simmons  is,  of  course, 
another  matter.  His  murderer  must  and  shall  be 
brought  to  justice,  while  I  have  a  penny  piece  in  my 
pocket." 

His  voice  broke  suddenly  into  a  harsh  sob,  and 
for  a  moment  his  hands  covered  his  face.  Then  he 
shook  himself  free  of  his  emotion. 

"We  will  all  do  our  best  on  that  score,  Mr.  Brent," 
said  Mr.  Narkom,  after  a  somewhat  lengthy  silence. 
"It  is  a  most  unfortunate  tragedy  indeed,  almost  a 
dual  one,  one  might  say,  but  I  think  you  can  safely 
trust  yourself  in  our  hands,  eh,  Headland?  " 

Cleek  bowed  his  head,  while  Mr.  Brent  smiled 
appreciation  of  the  Superintendent's  kindly  sym- 
pathy. 

"I  know  I  can,"  he  said  warmly.  "Believe  me, 
Mr.  Narkom,  and  you,  too,  Mr.  Headland,  I  am 
perfectly  content  to  leave  myself  with  you.  But 
I  have  my  suspicions,  and  strong  ones  they  are  too, 
and  I  would  not  mind  laying  a  bet  that  Patterson 
has  engineered  the  whole  scheme  and  is  quietly 
laughing  up  his  sleeve  at  me." 

"That's  a  bold  assertion,  Mr.  Brent,"  put  in 
Cleek  quietly. 

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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"But  justified  by  facts,  Mr.  Headland.  He  has 
twice  tried  to  bribe  Simmons  away  from  me,  and  last 
year  offered  Calcott,  my  head  clerk,  a  sum  of  £5000 
to  let  him  have  the  list  of  our  clients." 

"Oho!"  said  Cleek  in  two  different  tones.  "One 
of  that  sort  is  he?  Not  content  with  a  fortune  won 
by  profiteering,  he  must  try  and  ruin  others;  and 
having  failed  to  get  hold  of  your  list  of  clients,  he 
tries  the  bogus  theft  game,  and  gambles  on  that. 
Hmm!  Well,  Young  Barrington  may  be  only  a 
coincidence  after  all,  Mr.  Brent.  I  shouldn't  worry 
too  much  about  him  if  I  were  you.  Suppose  you 
tell  Mr.  Narkom  and  myself  the  details,  right  from 
the  beginning,  please?  When  was  the  murder 
discovered  and  who  discovered  it?" 

Mr.  Naylor-Brent  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  sighed  heavily,  as  he  polished  his  gold  glasses. 

"For  an  affair  of  such  tragic  importance,  Mr. 
Headland,"  he  said,  "it  is  singularly  lacking  in 
details.  There  is  really  nothing  more  to  tell  you 
than  that  at  6  o'clock,  when  I  myself  retired  from  the 
bank  to  my  private  rooms  overhead,  I  left  poor 
Simmons  on  guard  over  the  safe;  at  nine  o'clock  I 
was  fetched  down  by  the  inspector  on  the  beat, 
who  had  left  young  Wilson  with  the  body.  After 
that—" 

Cleek  lifted  a  silencing  hand. 

"  One  moment, "  he  said.     "  Who  is  young  Wilson, 
Mr.  Brent,  and  why  should  he  instead  of  the  in- 
spector have  been  left  alone  with  the  body?" 
208 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

"Wilson  is  one  of  the  cashiers,  Mr.  Headland — a 
nice  lad,  but  of  no  particular  education.  It  seems 
he  found  the  bank's  outer  door  unlatched,  and 
called  up  the  constable  on  the  beat;  as  luck  would 
have  it  the  inspector  happened  along,  and  down 
they  went  into  the  vaults  together.  But  as  to  why 
the  inspector  left  young  Wilson  with  the  body  in- 
stead of  sending  him  up  for  me — well,  frankly  I 
had  never  given  the  thing  a  thought  until  now." 

"I  see.  Funny  thing  this  chap  Wilson  should 
have  made  straight  for  the  vaults  though.  Did  he 
expect  a  murder  or  robbery  beforehand?  Was  he 
acquainted  with  the  fact  that  the  notes  were  there, 
Mr.  Brent?" 

"No.  He  knew  nothing  whatever  about  them. 
No  one  did — that  is  no  one  but  the  head  clerk,  Mr. 
Calcott,  myself  and  old  Simmons.  In  bank  matters 
you  know  the  less  said  about  such  things  the  better, 
and—"  I 

Mr.  Narkom  nodded. 

"Very  wise,  very  wise  indeed!"  he  said,  approv- 
ingly. "One  can't  be  too  careful  in  money  matters, 
and  if  I  may  say  so,  bank  pay  being  none  too  high, 
the  temptation  must  sometimes  be  rather  great. 
I've  a  couple  of  nephews  in  the  bank  myself — " 

Cleek's  eyes  suddenly  silenced  him  as  though  there 
had  been  a  spoken  word. 

"This  Wilson,  Mr.  Brent,"  Cleek  asked  quietly, 
"is  he  a  young  man?" 

"Oh — quite  young.  Not  more  than  four  or  five 
209 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

and  twenty,  I  should  say.  Came  from  London  with 
an  excellent  reference,  and  so  far  has  given  every 
satisfaction.  Universal  favourite  with  the  firm, 
and  also  with  old  Simmons  himself.  I  believe  the 
two  used  sometimes  to  lunch  together,  and  were 
firm  friends.  It  seems  almost  a  coincidence  that 
the  old  man  should  have  died  in  the  boy's  arms." 

"He  made  no  statement,  I  suppose,  before  he 
died,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  assassin?  But  of  course 
you  wouldn't  know  that,  as  you  weren't  there." 

"As  it  happens  I  do,  Mr.  Headland.  Young 
Wilson,  who  is  frightfully  upset — in  fact  the  shock 
of  the  thing  has  completely  shattered  his  nerves, 
never  very  strong  at  the  best  of  tunes — says  that 
the  old  man  just  writhed  and  writhed,  and  muttered 
something  about  a  rope.  Then  he  fell  back  dead." 

"A  rope?"  said  Cleek  in  surprise.  "Was  he  tied 
or  bound  then?" 

"That's  just  it.  There  was  no  sign  of  anything 
whatever  to  do  with  a  rope  about  him.  It  was 
possibly  a  death  delusion,  or  something  of  the  sort. 
Perhaps  the  poor  old  chap  was  semi-conscious." 

"  Undoubtedly.  And  now  just  one  more  question, 
Mr.  Brent,  before  I  tire  your  patience  out.  We 
policemen,  you  know,  are  terrible  nuisances.  What 
time  was  it  when  young  Wilson  discovered  the  door 
of  the  bank  unlatched?  " 

"About  half -past  nine.  I  had  just  noticed  my 
clock  striking  the  half  hour,  when  I  was  disturbed 
by  the  inspector — " 

210 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

"And  wasn't  it  a  bit  unusual  for  a  clerk  to  come 
back  to  the  bank  at  that  hour — unless  he  was 
working  overtime?  " 

Mr.  Naylor-Brent's  fine  head  went  back  with  a 
gesture  which  conveyed  to  Cleek  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  not  in  a  habit  of  working  any  of  his 
employees  beyond  the  given  hours. 

"He  was  doing  nothing  of  the  sort,  Mr.  Head- 
land," he  responded,  a  trifle  brusquely.  "Our  firm 
is  particularly  keen  about  the  question  of  working 
hours.  Wilson  tells  me  he  came  back  for  his  watch 
which  he  left  behind  him,  and — " 

"And  the  door  was  conveniently  unlatched  and 
ready,  so  he  simply  fetched  in  the  inspector,  and 
took  him  straight  down  into  the  vaults.  Didn't  get 
his  watch,  I  suppose?" 

Mr.  Naylor-Brent  jumped  suddenly  to  his  feet,  all 
his  self-possession  gone  for  the  moment. 

"Gad!  I  never  thought  of  that.  Hang  it!  man, 
you're  making  a  bigger  puzzle  of  it  than  ever. 
You're  not  insinuating  that  that  boy  murdered  old 
Simmons,  are  you?  I  can't  believe  that." 

"  I'm  not  insinuating  anything, "  responded  Cleek 
blandly,  "but  I  have  to  look  at  things  from  every 
angle  there  is.  When  you  got  downstairs  with  the 
inspector,  Mr.  Brent,  did  you  happen  to  notice  the 
safe  or  not?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  Indeed,  I  fear  that  was  my  first 
thought — it  was  natural,  with  £200,000  Bank  of 
England  notes  to  be  responsible  for — and  at  first 
211 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

I  thought  everything  was  all  right.  Then  young 
Wilson  told  me  that  he  himself  had  closed  the  safe 
door  .  .  .  What  are  you  smiling  at,  Mr. 
Headland?  It's  no  laughing  matter,  I  assure 
you!" 

The  queer  little  one-sided  smile,  so  indicative  of 
the  man,  travelled  for  a  moment  up  Cleek's  cheek 
and  was  gone  again  in  a  twinkling. 

"Nothing,"  he  responded  briefly.  "Just  a  pass- 
ing thought.  Then  you  mean  to  say  young  Wilson 
closed  the  safe.  Did  he  know  the  notes  had  vanished 
But  of  course  you  said  he  knew  nothing  of  them. 
But  if  they  were  there  when  he  looked  hi — " 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  and  he  let  the 
rest  of  the  sentence  go  by  default.  Mr.  Brent's  face 
flushed  crimson  with  excitement. 

"Why,  at  that  rate,"  he  ejaculated,  "the  money 
wasn't  stolen  until  young  Wilson  sent  the  inspector 
up  for  me.  And  we  let  him  walk  quietly  out!  You 
were  right,  Mr.  Headland,  if  I  had  only  done  my 
duty  and  told  Inspector  Corkran  at  once — " 

"  Steady  man,  steady.  I  don't  say  it  is  so, "  put 
in  Cleek  with  a  quiet  little  smile.  "I'm  only  trying 
to  find  light—  " 

"And  making  it  a  dashed  sight  blacker  still,  beg- 
ging your  pardon,"  returned  Mr.  Brent  briskly. 

"That's  as  may  be.    But  the  devil  isn't  always  as 
black  as  he  is  painted,' '  responded  Cleek.     "  I'd  like 
to  see  this  Wilson,  Mr.  Brent,  unless  he  is  so  ill  he 
hasn't  been  able  to  attend  the  office." 
212 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

"Oh  he's  back  at  work  to-day,  and  I'll  have 
here  in  a  twinkling." 

And  almost  in  a  twinkling  he  arrived — a  young, 
slim,  pallid  youngster,  rather  given  to  over-bright- 
ness in  his  choice  of  ties,  and  somewhat  better  dressed 
than  is  the  lot  of  most  bank  clerks.  Cleek  noted  the 
pearl  pin,  the  well-cut  suit  he  wore,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment his  face  wore  a  strange  look. 

Mr.  Naylor-Brent's  brisk  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"These  gentlemen  are  from  Scotland  Yard,  Wil- 
son," he  said  sharply,  "and  they  want  to  know  just 
what  happened  here  on  Tuesday  night.  Tell  them 
all  you  know,  please." 

Young  Wilson's  pale  face  went  a  queer  drab  shade 
like  newly  baked  bread.  He  began  to  tremble 
visibly. 

"Happened,  sir — happened?"  he  stammered. 
"How  should  I  know  what  happened?  I — I  only 
got  there  just  hi  time  and — " 

"Yes,  yes.  We  know  just  when  you  got  there, 
Mr.  Wilson,"  said  Cleek,  "but  what  we  want  to 
know  is  what  induced  you  to  go  down  into  the 
vaults  when  you  fetched  the  inspector?  It  seemed 
a  rather  unnecessary  journey  -  to  say  the  least 
of  it." 

"I  heard  a  cry — at  least — " 

"Right  through  the  closed  door  of  a  nine-inch 
concrete-walled    vault,    Wilson?"    struck    in    Mr. 
Brent  promptly.    "  Simmons  had  been  shut  in  there 
by  myself,  Mr.  Headland,  and — " 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Shut  in,  Mr.  Brent?  Shut  in,  did*  you  say? 
Then  how  did  Mr.  Wilson  here,  and  the  inspector 
enter?" 

Young  Wilson  stretched  out  his  hand  imploringly. 

"The  door  was  open,"  he  stammered.  "I  swear 
it  on  my  honour.  And  the  safe  was  open,  and — and 
the  notes  were  gone!" 

"What  notes?"  It  was  Mr.  Brent's  voice  which 
broke  the  momentary  silence,  as  he  realized  the 
significance  of  the  admission.  For  answer  the 
young  man  dropped  his  face  into  his  shaking  hands. 

"Oh,  the  notes — the  £200,000!  You  may  think 
what  you  like,  sir,  but  I  swear  I  am  innocent!  I 
never  touched  the  money,  nor  did  I  touch  my — Mr. 
Simmons.  I  swear  it,  I  swear  it!" 

"Don't  swear  too  strongly,  or  you  may  have  to 
'un-swear'  again,"  struck  in  Cleek,  severely.  "Mr. 
Narkom  and  I  would  like  to  have  a  look  at  the  vault 
itself,  and  see  the  body,  if  you  have  no  objection." 

"Certainly.  Wilson,  you  had  better  come  along 
with  us,  we  might  need  you.  This  way,  gentlemen." 

Speaking,  the  manager  rose  to  his  feet,  opened 
the  door  of  his  private  office,  and  proceeded  down- 
stairs by  way  of  an  equally  private  staircase  to  the 
vaults  below.  Cleek,  Mr.  Narkom  and  young 
Wilson — very  much  agitated  at  the  coming  ordeal — 
brought  up  the  rear.  As  they  passed  the  door 
leading  into  the  bank,  for  the  use  of  the  clerks,  old 
Calcott  came  out,  and  paused  respectfully  in  front 
of  the  manager. 

214 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

"If  you  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  thought 
perhaps  you  might  like  to  see  this." 

He  held  out  a  Bank  of  England  £5  note,  and  Mr. 
Brent  took  it  and  examined  it  critically.  Then  a 
little  cry  broke  from  his  lips. 

"A.  541063!"  he  exclaimed.  "Good  Heavens, 
Calcott,  where  did  this  come  from?  Who — ?  " 

Calcott  rubbed  his  old  hands  together  as  though 
he  were  enjoying  a  tit-bit  with  much  satisfaction. 

"Half-an-hour  ago,  sir,  Mr.  George  Barrington 
brought  it  in,  and  wanted  smaller  change." 

George  Barrington!  The  members  of  the  little 
party  ^ked  at  one  another  in  amazement,  and 
Cleek  noticed  for  a  moment  that  young  Wilson's 
tense  face  relaxed.  Mr.  George  Barrington,  eh? 
The  curious  little  one-sided  smile  travelled  up 
Cleek's  cheek  and  was  gone.  The  party  continued 
their  way  downstairs,  somewhat  silenced  by  this 
new  development. 

A  narrow,  dark  corridor  led  to  the  vault  itself, 
which  was  by  no  means  a  large  chamber,  but  re- 
markable for  the  extreme  solidity  of  its  building. 
It  was  concrete,  as  most  vaults  are,  and  lit  only  by  a 
single  electric  light,  which,  when  switched  on,  shone 
dully  against  the  gray  stone  walls.  The  only 
ventilation  it  boasted  was  provided  by  means  of  a 
row  of  small  holes,  about  an  inch  in  diameter,  across 
one  wall — that  nearest  to  the  passage — and  exactly 
facing  the  safe.  So  small  were  they  that  it  seemed 
almost  as  if  not  even  a  mouse  could  get  through  one 
215 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

of  them,  should  a  mouse  be  so  minded.  These  holes 
were  placed  so  low  down  that  it  was  physically 
impossible  to  see  through  them,  and  though  Cleek's 
eyes  noted  their  appearance  there  in  the  vault,  he 
said  nothing  and  seemed  to  pay  them  little  attention. 

A  speedy  glance  round  the  room  gave  him  all  the 
details  of  it!  The  safe  against  the  wall,  the  figure 
of  the  old  bank  servant  beside  it,  sleeping  his  last 
sleep,  and  guarding  the  vault  in  death  as  he  had  not 
been  able  to  do  in  life.  Cleek  crossed  toward  him, 
and  then  stopped  suddenly,  peering  down  at  what 
seemed  a  little  twist  of  paper. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "Surely  you  don't  allow 
smoking  in  the  vault,  Mr.  Brent?  Not  that  it  could 
do  much  harm  but — " 

"Certainly  not,  Mr.  Headland,"  returned  the 
manager  warmly.  "  That  is  strictly  against  orders." 
He  glared  at  young  Wilson,  who,  nervous  as  he  had 
been  before,  became  obviously  more  flustered  than 
ever. 

"I  don't  smoke,  sir,"  he  stammered  in  answer  to 
that  managerial  look  of  accusation. 

"Glad  to  hear  it."  Cleek  stroked  his  cigarette 
case  lovingly  inside  his  pocket  as  though  in  apology 
for  the  libel.  "But  it's  my  mistake;  not  a  cigarette 
end  at  all,  just  a  twist  of  paper.  Of  no  account 
anyway."  He  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  and  then  giving 
his  hand  a  flirt,  appeared  to  have  tossed  it  away. 
Only  Mr.  Narkom,  used  to  the  ways  of  his  famous 
associate,  saw  that  he  had  "palmed"  it  into  his 
216 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

pocket.  Then  Cleek  crossed  the  room  and  stood  a 
moment  looking  down  at  the  body,  lying  there 
huddled  and  distorted  in  the  death  agony  that  had 
so  cruelly  and  mysteriously  seized  it. 

So  this  was  Will  Simmons.  Well,  if  the  face  is 
any  index  to  the  character — which  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten  it  isn't — then  Mr.  Naylor-Brent's  con- 
fidence had  certainly  not  been  misplaced.  A  fine, 
clean,  rugged  face  this,  with  set  lips,  a  face  that 
would  never  fail  a  friend,  and  never  forgive  an 
enemy.  Young  Wilson,  who  had  stepped  up  beside 
Cleek,  shivered  suddenly  as  he  looked  down  at  the 
body,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Mr.  Brent's  voice  broke  the  silence  that  the  sight 
of  death  so  often  brings. 

"I  think,"  he  said  quietly,  "if  you  don't  mind, 
gentlemen,  I'll  get  back  to  my  office.  There  are 
important  matters  at  stake  just  now,  so  if  you'll 
excuse  me — It's  near  closing  time  you  know,  and 
there  are  many  important  matters  to  see  to.  Wil- 
son, you  stay  here  with  these  gentlemen,  and  render 
any  assistance  that  you  can.  Show  them  round  if 
they  wish  it.  You  need  not  resume  work  to-day. 
Anything  which  you  wish  to  know,  please  call  upon 
me." 

"Thanks.  We'll  remember,"  Cleek  bowed  cere- 
moniously, as  the  manager  retreated,  "but  no 
doubt  Mr.  Wilson  here  will  give  us  all  the  assistance 
we  require,  Mr.  Brent.  We'll  make  an  examination 
of  the  body  first,  and  let  you  know  the  verdict." 
217 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

The  door  closed  on  Mr.  Brent's  figure,  and  Cleek 
and  Mr.  Narkom  and  young  Wilson  were  alone  with 
the  dead. 

Cleek  went  down  upon  his  knees  before  the  still 
figure,  and  examined  it  from  end  to  end.  The 
clenched  hands  were  put  to  the  keenest  scrutiny, 
but  he  passed  no  comment,  only  glancing  now  and 
again  from  those  same  hands  to  the  figure  of  the 
young  cashier  who  stood  trembling  beside  him. 

"Hmm,  convulsions,"  he  finally  said  softly  to 
himself,  and  Mr.  Narkom  watched  his  face  with 
intense  eagerness.  "Might  be  aconite — but  how 
administered?"  Again  he  stood  silent,  his  brain 
moving  swiftly  down  an  avenue  of  thought,  and 
if  the  thoughts  could  have  been  seen,  they  should 
have  shown  something  like  this:  Convulsions — 
writhing — twisting — tied  up  in  knots  of  pain — a 
rope. 

Suddenly  he  wheeled  swiftly  upon  Wilson,  his 
face  a  mask  for  his  emotions. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  sternly,  "I  want  you  to  tell 
me  the  exact  truth,  Mr.  Wilson.  It's  the  wisest 
way  when  dealing  with  the  police,  you  know.  Are 
you  positively  certain  Simmons  said  nothing  as  to 
the  cause  of  his  death?  What  exactly  were  his  last 
words  to  you?" 

"I  begged  him  to  tell  me  who  it  was  who  had 

injured  him,"  replied  Wilson,  in  a  shaking  voice, 

"but  all  he  could  say  was,  'The  rope — mind  the 

Rope — the  Rope  of  Fear — the  Rope  of  Fear,'  and 

218 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

then  he  was  gone.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  any 
rope,  Mr.  Headland,  and  I  can't  imagine  what  the 
dear  old  man  was  driving  at.  And  now  to  think 
he  is  dead — dead — " 

His  voice  broke  and  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Once  again  Cleek  spoke. 

"And  you  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing?" 

"Well — I  hardly  know.  There  was  a  sound — a 
faint  whisper,  reedlike  and  thin,  almost  like  a  long 
drawn  sigh.  I  really  thought  I  must  have  imagined 
it,  and  when  I  listened  again  it  had  gone.  After 
that  I  rushed  to  the  safe  and — " 

"Why  did  you  do  that?" 

"Because  he  had  told  me  at  dinner-time  about  the 
notes,  and  made  me  promise  I  wouldn't  mention  it, 
and  I  was  afraid  someone  had  stolen  them." 

"Is  it  likely  that  anyone  overheard  your  conver- 
sation then?  Where  were  you  lunching?" 

"In  the  Rose  and  Crown,"  Wilson's  voice  trem- 
bled again  as  though  the  actual  recalling  of  the 
thing  terrified  him  anew.  "Simmons  and  I  often 
had  lunch  together.  There  was  no  one  else  at  our 
table,  and  the  place  was  practically  empty.  The 
only  person  near  was  old  Ramagee,  the  black  chap 
who  keeps  the  Indian  bazaar  in  the  town.  He's  an 
old  inhabitant,  but  even  now  hardly  understands 
English,  and  most  of  the  time  he's  so  drugged  with 
opium,  that  if  did  hear  he'd  never  understand.  He 
was  certainly  blind  to  the  world  that  lunch  time,  be- 
cause my — my  friend,  Simmons,  I  mean,  noticed  it." 
219 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Indeed!"  Cleek  stroked  Ms  chin  thoughtfully 
for  some  moments.  Then  he  sniffed  the  air,  and 
uttered  a  casual  remark?  "Fond  of  sweets  still, 
are  you  Mr.  Wilson?  Peppermint  drops,  or  aniseed 
balls,  eh?" 

Mr.  Narkom's  eyes  fairly  bulged  with  amazement, 
and  young  Wilson  flushed  angrily. 

"I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  all  that,  Mr.  Headland, " 
he  said  quickly.  "If  I  don't  smoke,  I  certainly 
don't  go  about  sucking  candy  like  a  Kid.  I  never 
cared  for  'em  as  a  youngster,  and  I  haven't  had  any 
for  a  cat's  age.  What  made  you  ask?" 

"Nothing,  simply  my  fancy."  But,  neverthe- 
less, Cleek  continued  to  sniff,  and  then  suddenly 
with  a  little  excited  sound  went  down  on  his  hands 
and  knees  and  began  examining  the  stone  floor. 

"It's  not  possible — and  yet — and  yet,  I  must  be 
right,"  he  said  softly,  getting  to  his  feet  at  last. 
"'A  rope  of  fear'  was  what  he  said,  wasn't  it?  'A 
rope  of  fear."  He  crossed  suddenly  to  the  safe,  and 
bending  over  it,  examined  the  handle  and  doors 
critically.  And  at  the  moment  Mr.  Brent  reap- 
peared. Cleek  switched  round  upon  his  heel,  and 
smiled  across  at  him. 

"Able  to  spare  us  a  little  more  of  your  valuable 
time,  Mr.  Brent?"  he  said  politely.  "Well,  I  was 
just  coming  up.  There's  nothing  really  to  be 
gained  here.  I  have  been  looking  over  the  safe  for 
finger-prints,  and  there's  not  much  doubt  about 
whose  they  are.  Mr.  Wilson  here  had  better  come 
220 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

upstairs  and  tell  us  just  exactly  what  he  did  with 
the  notes,  and — " 

Young  Wilson's  face  went  suddenly  gray.  He 
clenched  his  hands  together  and  breathed  hard  like 
a  spent  runner. 

"I  tell  you,  they  were  gone,"  he  cried  desperately. 
"They  were  gone.  I  looked  for  them,  and  didn't 
find  them.  They  were  gone — gone — gone ! " 

But  Cleek  seemed  not  to  take  the  slightest  notice 
of  him,  and  swinging  upon  his  heel  followed  in  the 
wake  of  the  manager's  broad  back,  while  Wilson 
perforce  had  to  return  with  Mr.  Narkom.  Half 
way  up  the  stairs,  however,  Cleek  suddenly  stopped, 
and  gave  vent  to  a  hurried  ejaculation. 

" Silly  idiot  that  I  am! "  he  said  crossly.  "I  have 
left  my  magnifying  glass  on  top  of  the  safe — and 
it's  the  most  necessary  tool  we  policemen  have. 
Don't  bother  to  come,  Mr.  Brent,  if  you'll  just  lend 
me  the  keys  of  the  vault.  Thanks,  I'll  be  right 
back." 

It  was  certainly  not  much  more  than  a  moment 
when  he  did  return,  and  the  other  members  of  the 
little  party  had  barely  reached  the  private  office 
when  he  fairly  rushed  in  after  them.  There  was  a 
look  of  supreme  satisfaction  in  his  eyes. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said,  lifting  the  glass  up  for  all  to 
see.  "And  look  here,  Mr.  Brent,  I've  changed  my 
mind  about  discussing  the  matter  any  further  here. 
The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  go  down  in  a  cab 
with  Mr.  Narkom  to  the  police  station,  and  get  a 
221 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

warrant  for  this  young  man's  arrest — no,  don't 
speak,  Mr.  Wilson,  I've  not  finished  yet — and  take 
him  along  with  you.  I  will  stay  here  and  just 
scribble  down  the  facts.  It'll  save  no  end  of  bother, 
and  we  can  take  our  man  straight  up  to  London  with 
us,  under  proper  arrest.  I  shan't  be  more  than  ten 
minutes  at  the  most." 

Mr.  Brent  nodded  assent. 

"As  you  please,  Mr.  Headland,"  he  said  gravely. 
"We'll  go  along  at  once.  Wilson,  you  understand 
you  are  to  come  with  us?  It's  no  use  trying  to  get 
away  from  it,  man,  you're  up  against  it  now.  You'd 
better  just  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  and  face  the  music. 
I'm  ready,  Mr.  Narkom." 

Quietly  they  took  their  departure,  in  a  hastily 
found  cab,  leaving  Cleek,  the  picture  of  stolid  police- 
manism,  with  notebook  and  pencil  in  hand,  busily 
inscribing  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  "the  facts." 

Only  "ten  minutes"  Cleek  had  asked  for,  but  it 
was  nearer  twenty  before  he  was  ushered  out  of  the 
side  entrance  of  the  bank  by  the  old  housekeeper, 
and  though  perhaps  it  was  only  sheer  luck  that 
caused  him  to  nearly  tumble  into  the  arms  of  Mr. 
George  Barrington — whom  he  recognized  from  the 
word  picture  of  that  gentleman  given  by  Mr.  Brent 
some  time  before — it  was  decidedly  by  arrangement 
that,  after  a  few  careless  words  on  the  part  of  Cleek, 
Barrington,  his  face  blank  with  astonishment, 
accompanied  this  stranger  down  to  the  police 
station. 

222 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

They  found  a  grim  little  party  awaiting  them 
but  at  sight  of  Cleek's  face  Mr.  Narkom  started 
forward,  and  put  a  hand  upon  his  friend's  arm. 

"What  have  you  found,  Headland?"  he  asked 
excitedly. 

"Just  what  I  expected  to  find,"  came  the  trium- 
phant reply.  "Now,  Mr.  Wilson,  you  are  going  to 
hear  the  end  of  the  story.  Do  you  want  to  see  what 
I  found,  gentlemen?  Here  it  is."  He  fumbled  in 
his  big  coat  pocket  for  a  moment  and  pulled  out  a 
parcel  which  crackled  crisply.  "The  notes!" 

"Good  God!" 

It  was  young  Wilson  who  spoke. 

"Yes,  a  very  good  God — even  to  sinners,  Mr. 
Wilson.  We  don't  always  deserve  all  the  goodness 
we  get,  you  know,"  Cleek  went  on.  "The  notes 
are  found  you  see;  the  notes,  you  murderer,  you 
despicable  thief,  the  notes  which  were  entrusted  to 
your  care  by  the  innocent  people  who  pinned  their 
faith  to  you." 

Speaking,  he  leaped  forward,  past  the  waiting 
inspector  and  Mr.  Narkom,  past  the  shabby,  down- 
at-heel  figure  of  George  Barrington,  past  the  slim, 
shaking  Wilson,  and  straight  at  the  substantial 
figure  of  Mr.  Naylor-Brent,  as  he  stood  leaning  with 
one  arm  upon  the  inspector's  high  desk. 

So  surprising,  so  unexpected  was  the  attack,  that 
this   victim   was   overpowered   and   the   bracelets 
snapped  upon  his  wrists  before  anyone  present  had 
begun  to  realize  exactly  what  had  happened. 
223 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

*rnen  Cleek  rose  to  his  feet. 

"What's  that,  Inspector?"  he  said  in  answer  to  a 
hurriedly  spoken  query.  "  A  mistake?  Oh  dear,  no. 
No  mistake  whatever.  Our  friend  here  understands 
that  quite  well.  Thought  you'd  have  escaped  with 
that  £200,000  and  left  your  confederate  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  whole  thing,  did  you?  Or  else  young 
Wilson  here  whom  you'd  so  terrorized!  A  very 
pretty  plot  indeed,  only  Hamilton  Cleek  happened 
to  come  along  instead  of  Mr.  George  Headland,  and 
show  you  a  thing  or  two  about  plots." 

"Hamilton  Cleek!"  The  name  fell  from  every 
pair  of  lips,  and  even  Brent  himself  stared  at  this 
wizard  whom  all  the  world  knew,  and  who  un- 
fortunately had  crossed  his  path  when  he  least 
wanted  him. 

"Yes,  Hamilton  Cleek,  gentlemen.  Cleek  of 
Scotland  Yard.  And  a  very  good  thing  for  you,  Mr. 
Wilson,  that  I  happened  to  come  along.  Things 
looked  very  black  for  you,  you  know,  and  those 
beastly  nerves  of  yours  made  it  worse.  And  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  this  cad's  confederate — " 

"Confederate,  Mr.  Cleek?"  put  in  Wilson  shakily. 
"I — I  don't  understand.  Who  could  have  been 
his  confederate?  " 

"None  other  than  old  Ramagee,"  responded 
Cleek.  "You'll  find  him  drugged  as  usual,  in  the 
Rose  and  Crown.  I've  seen  him  there  only  a  while 
ago.  But  now  he  is  minus  a  constant  companion 
of  his.  .  .  .  And  here  is  the  actual  murderer." 
224 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

He  put  his  hand  into  another  capacious  pocket 
and  drew  forth  a  smallish,  glass  box. 

"The  Rope  of  Fear,  gentlemen,"  he  said  quietly, 
"a  vicious  little  rattler  of  the  most  deadly  sort. 
And  it  won't  be  long  before  that  gentleman  there 
becomes  acquainted  with  another  sort  of  rope. 
Take  him  away,  Inspector.  The  bare  sight  of  him 
hurts  an  honest  man's  eyes." 

And  they  took  him  away  forthwith,  a  writhing, 
furious  Thing,  utterly  transformed  from  the  genial 
personality  which  had  for  so  long  swindled  and  out- 
witted a  trusting  public. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  them,  Cleek  turned  to 
young  Wilson  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  accused  you  as  I  did,"  he  said 
softly,  with  a  little  smile,  "but  that  is  a  policeman's 
way,  you  know.  Strategy  is  part  of  the  game — 
though  it  was  a  poor  trick  of  mine  to  cause  you  addi- 
tional pain.  You  must  forgive  me.  I  don't  doubt 
the  death  of  your  father  was  a  great  shock,  although 
you  tried  manfully  to  conceal  the  relationship.  No 
doubt  it  was  his  wish — not  yours." 

A  sudden  transformation  came  over  Wilson's 
pale,  haggard  face.  It  was  like  the  sun  shining  after 
a  heavy  storm. 

"You — knew?"  he  said,  over  and  over  again. 
"You  knew?  Oh,  Mr.  Cleek,  now  I  can  speak  out 
at  last.  Father  always  made  me  promise  to  be 
silent,  he — he  wanted  me  to  be  a  gentleman,  and 
he'd  spent  every  penny  he  possessed  to  get  me  well 
225 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

enough  educated  to  enter  the  bank.  He  was  mad 
for  money,  mad  for  anything  which  was  going  to 
better  my  position.  And — and  I  was  afraid  when 
he  told  me  about  the  notes,  he  might  be  tempted — 
Oh!  It  was  dreadful  of  me,  I  know,  to  think  of  it, 
but  I  knew  he  doted  upon  me,  I  was  afraid  he  might 
try  and  take  one  or  two  of  them,  hoping  they 
wouldn't  be  missed  out  of  so  great  an  amount. 
You  see  we'd  been  in  money  difficulties  and  were 
still  paying  my  college  fees  off  after  all  this  time. 
So  I  went  back  to  keep  watch  with  him — and  found 
him  dying — though  how  you  knew — " 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  and  Cleek  smiled 
kindly. 

"By  the  identical  shape  of  your  hands,  my  boy. 
I  never  saw  two  pairs  of  hands  so  much  alike  in  all 
my  life.  And  then  your  agitation  made  me  risk  the 
guess.  .  .  .  What's  that,  Inspector?  How  was  the 
murder  committed,  and  what  did  this  little  rattler 
have  to  do  with  it?  Well,  quite  simple.  The 
snake  was  put  in  the  safe  with  the  notes,  and  a  trail 
of  aniseed — of  which  snakes  are  very  fond,  you 
know — laid  from  there  to  the  foot  of  old  Simmons. 
The  safe  door  was  left  ajar — though  in  the  half 
dusk  the  old  man  certainly  never  noticed  it.  I 
found  all  this  out  from  those  few  words  of  Wilson's 
about '  the  rope, '  and  from  his  having  heard  a  reed- 
like  sound.  I  had  to  do  some  hard  thinking,  I  can 
tell  you.  When  I  went  downstairs  again,  Mr. 
Narkom,  after  my  magnifying  glass,  I  turned  down 
226 


The  Rope  of  Fear 

poor  Simmons's  sock  and  found  the  mark  I  expected 
— the  snake  had  crawled  up  his  leg  and  struck  home. 

"Why  did  I  suspect  Mr.  Brent?  Well,  it  was 
obvious  almost  from  the  very  first,  for  he  was  so 
anxious  to  throw  suspicion  upon  Mr.  Barrington 
here,  and  Wilson — with  Patterson  thrown  in  for 
good  measure.  Then  again  it  was  certain  that  no 
one  else  would  have  been  allowed  into  the  vault  by 
Simmons,  much  less  to  go  to  the  safe  itself,  and  open 
it  with  the  keys.  That  he  did  go  to  the  safe  was 
apparent  by  the  finger  prints  upon  it,  and  as  they 
too  smelt  of  ainseed,  the  whole  thing  began  to  look 
decidedly  funny.  The  trail  of  aniseed  led  straight 
up  to  where  Simmons  lay,  so  I  can  only  suppose 
that  after  Brent  released  the  snake — the  trail  of 
course  having  been  laid  beforehand,  when  he  was 
alone — Brent  must  have  stood  and  waited  until  he 
saw  it  actually  strike,  and — Hew  do  I  know  that, 
Mr.  Wilson?  Well,  he  smoked  a  cigarette  there, 
anyhow.  The  stub  I  found  bore  the  same  name  as 
those  hi  his  box,  and  it  was  smoked  identically  the 
same  way  as  a  couple  which  lay  in  his  ashtray. 

"I  could  only  conclude  that  he  was  waiting  for 
something  to  happen,  and  as  the  snake  struck,  he 
grabbed  up  the  bundle  of  notes,  quite  forgetting  to 
close  the  safe-door,  and  rushed  out  of  the  vault. 
Ramagee  was  in  the  corridor  outside,  and  probably 
whistled  the  snake  back  through  the  ventilating 
holes  near  the  floor,  instead  of  venturing  near  the 
body  himself.  You  remember,  you  heard  the  sound 
227 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

of  that  pipe,  Mr.  Wilson?  Ramagee  probably 
made  his  escape  while  the  Inspector  was  upstairs. 
Unfortunately  for  him,  he  ran  right  into  Mr. 
George  Harrington  here,  and  when,  as  he  tells  me, 
he  later  told  Brent  about  seeing  Ramagee,  well,  the 
whole  thing  became  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff." 

"Yes,"  put  in  George  Barrington,  excitedly, 
taking  up  the  tale  in  his  weak,  rather  silly  voice, 
"my  step-father  refused  to  believe  me,  and  gave  me 
£20  in  notes  to  go  away.  I  suppose  he  didn't  notice 
they  were  some  of  the  stolen  ones.  I  changed  one 
of  them  at  the  bank  this  morning,  but  I  had  no  idea 
how  important  they  were  until  I  knocked  into  Mr. — 
Mr.  Cleek  here.  And  he  made  me  come  along  with 
him." 

Mr.  Narkom  looked  at  Cleek,  and  Cleek  looked 
at  Mr.  Narkom,  and  the  blank  wonder  in  the  Super- 
intendent's eyes  caused  him  to  smile. 

"Another  feather  in  the  cap  of  foolish  old  Scot- 
land Yard,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "Time  we  made 
tracks  I  think.  Coming  our  way,  Mr.  Wilson? 
We'll  see  you  back  home  if  you  like.  You're  too 
upset  to  go  on  alone.  Good  afternoon,  Inspector 
and — good-bye.  I'll  leave  the  case  with  you.  It's 
safe  enough  in  your  hands,  but  if  you  take  my  tip 
you'll  put  that  human  beast  in  as  tight  a  lock-up  as 
the  station  affords." 

Then  he  linked  one  arm  in  Mr.  Narkom's  and 
the  other  arm  in  that  of  the  admiring,  and  wholly 
speechless  Wilson,  and  went  out  into  the  sunshine. 
228 


vn 

THE  SAFETY  MATCH* 
ANTON  CHEKHOV 


ON  the  morning  of  October  6,  1885,  in  the 
office  of  the  Inspector  of  Police  of  the  second 
division  of  S —  District,  there  appeared  a 
respectably  dressed  young  man,  who  announced  that 
his  master,  Marcus  Ivanovitch  Klausoff,  a  retired 
officer  of  the  Horse  Guards,  separated  from  his  wife, 
had  been  murdered.    While  making  this  announce- 
ment the  young  man  was  white  and  terribly  agitated. 
His  hands  trembled  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  terror. 

"Whom  have  I  the  honour  of  addressing?"  asked 
the  inspector. 

"Psyekoff,  Lieutenant  Klausoff's  agent;  agricul- 
turist and  mechanician!" 

The  inspector  and  his  deputy,  on  visiting  the 
scene  of  the  occurrence  in  company  with  Psyekoff, 
found  the  following:  Near  the  wing  in  which 
Klausoff  had  lived  was  gathered  a  dense  crowd.  The 
news  of  the  murder  had  sped  swift  as  lightning 
through  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  peasantry, 
thanks  to  the  fact  that  the  day  was  a  holiday,  had 

*  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  Review  of  Reviews  Co. 

229 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

hurried  together  from  all  the  neighbouring  villages. 
There  was  much  commotion  and  talk.  Here  and 
there,  pale,  tear-stained  faces  were  seen.  The  door 
of  Klausoff's  bedroom  was  found  locked.  The  key 
was  inside. 

"  It  is  quite  clear  that  the  scoundrels  got  in  by  the 
window!"  said  Psyekoff  as  they  examined  the  door. 

They  went  to  the  garden,  into  which  the  bedroom 
window  opened.  The  window  looked  dark  and 
ominous.  It  was  covered  by  a  faded  green  curtain. 
One  corner  of  the  curtain  was  slightly  turned  up, 
which  made  it  possible  to  look  into  the  bedroom. 

"Did  any  of  you  look  into  the  window?"  asked 
the  inspector. 

"Certainly  not,  your  worship!"  answered 
Ephraim,  the  gardener,  a  little  gray-haired  old  man, 
who  looked  like  a  retired  sergeant.  "Who's  going 
to  look  in,  if  all  their  bones  are  shaking?  " 

"Ah,  Marcus  Ivanovitch,  Marcus  Ivanovitch!" 
sighed  the  inspector,  looking  at  the  window,  "  I  told 
you  you  would  come  to  a  bad  end!  I  told  the  dear 
man,  but  he  wouldn't  listen!  Dissipation  doesn't 
bring  any  good!" 

"Thanks  to  Ephraim,"  said  Psyekoff;  "but  for 
him,  we  would  never  have  guessed.  He  was  the 
first  to  guess  that  something  was  wrong.  He  comes 
to  me  this  morning,  and  says:  'Why  is  the  master 
so  long  getting  up?  He  hasn't  left  his  bedroom  for  a 
whole  week!'  The  moment  he  said  that,  it  was  just 
as  if  someone  had  hit  me  with  an  axe.  The  thought 
230 


The  Safety  Match 

flashed  through  my  mind,  'We  haven't  had  a  sight 
of  him_since  last  Saturday,  and  to-day  is  Sunday'! 
Seven  whole  days — not  a  doubt  of  it!" 

"Ay,  poor  fellow!"  again  sighed  the  inspector. 
"He  was  a  clever  fellow,  finely  educated,  and  kind- 
hearted  at  that!  And  in  society,  nobody  could 
touch  him!  But  he  was  a  waster,  God  rest  his  soul! 
I  was  prepared  for  anything  since  he  refused  to  h've 
with  Olga  Petrovna.  Poor  thing,  a  good  wife,  but 
a  sharp  tongue!  Stephen!"  the  inspector  called  to 
one  of  his  deputies,  "go  over  to  my  house  this 
minute,  and  send  Andrew  to  the  captain  to  lodge  an 
information  with  him!  Tell  him  that  Marcus 
Ivanovitch  has  been  murdered.  And  run  over  to 
the  orderly;  why  should  he  sit  there,  kicking  his 
heels?  Let  him  come  here!  And  go  as  fast  as  you 
'can  to  the  examining  magistrate,  Nicholas  Yermo- 
laiyevitch.  Tell  him  to  come  over  here!  Wait; 
I'll  write  him  a  note!" 

The  inspector  posted  sentinels  around  the  wing, 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  examining  magistrate,  and  then 
went  over  to  the  director's  for  a  glass  of  tea.  Ten 
minutes  later  he  was  sitting  on  a  stool,  carefully 
nibbling  a  lump  of  sugar,  and  swallowing  the  scalding 
tea. 

"There  you  are!"  he  was  saying  to  Psyekoff; 
"there  you  are!  A  noble  by  birth!  a  rich  man — a 
favourite  of  the  gods,  you  may  say,  as  Pushkin  has 
it,  and  what  did  he  come  to?  He  drank  and  dissi- 
pated and — there  you  are— he's  murdered." 
231 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

After  a  couple  of  hours  the  examining  magistrate 
drove  up.  Nicholas  Yermolaiyevitch  Chubikoff — 
for  that  was  the  magistrate's  name — was  a  tall, 
fleshy  old  man  of  sixty,  who  had  been  wrestling 
with  the  duties  of  his  office  for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
Everybody  in  the  district  knew  him  as  an  honest 
man,  wise,  energetic,  and  in  love  with  his  work.  He 
was  accompanied  to  the  scene  of  the  murder  by  his 
inveterate  companion,  fellow  worker,  and  secretary, 
Dukovski,  a  tall  young  fellow  of  twenty-six. 

"Is  it  possible,  gentlemen?"  cried  Chubikoff, 
entering  Psyekoff 's  room,  and  quickly  shaking  hands 
with  everyone.  "  Is  it  possible?  Marcus  Ivanovitch? 
Murdered?  No!  It  is  impossible!  Im-poss-i-ble!" 

"Go  in  there!"  sighed  the  inspector. 

"Lord,  have  mercy  on  us!  Only  last  Friday  I 
saw  him  at  the  fair  in  Farabankoff .  I  had  a  drink 
of  vodka  with  him,  save  the  mark!" 

"Go  in  there!"  again  sighed  the  inspector. 

They  sighed,  uttered  exclamations  of  horror, 
drank  a  glass  of  tea  each,  and  went  to  the  wing. 

"Get  back!"  the  orderly  cried  to  the  peasants. 

Going  to  the  wing,  the  examining  magistrate  began 
his  work  by  examining  the  bedroom  door.  The 
door  proved  to  be  of  pine,  painted  yellow,  and  was 
uninjured.  Nothing  was  found  which  could  serve 
as  a  clew.  They  had  to  break  in  the  door. 

"Everyone  not  here  on  business  is  requested  to 
keep  away!"  said  the  magistrate,  when,  after  much 
hammering  and  shaking,  the  door  yielded  to  axe 
232 


The  Safety  Match 

and  chisel.  "I  request  this,  in  the  interest  of  the 
investigation.  Orderly,  don't  let  anyone  in!" 

Chubikoff,  his  assistant,  and  the  inspector  opened 
the  door,  and  hesitatingly,  one  after  the  other, 
entered  the  room.  Their  eyes  met  the  following 
sight:  Beside  the  single  window  stood  the  big 
wooden  bed  with  a  huge  feather  mattress.  On  the 
crumpled  feather  bed  lay  a  tumbled,  crumpled 
quilt.  The  pillow,  in  a  cotton  pillow-case,  also 
much  crumpled,  was  dragging  on  the  floor.  On  the 
table  beside  the  bed  lay  a  silver  watch  and  a  silver 
twenty-kopeck  piece.  Beside  them  lay  some  sulphur 
matches.  Beside  the  bed,  the  little  table,  and  the 
single  chair,  there  was  no  furniture  in  the  room. 
Looking  under  the  bed,  the  inspector  saw  a  couple 
of  dozen  empty  bottles,  an  old  straw  hat,  and  a 
quart  of  vodka.  Under  the  table  lay  one  top  boot, 
covered  with  dust.  Casting  a  glance  around  the 
room,  the  magistrate  frowned  and  grew  red  in  the 
face. 

"Scoundrels!"  he  muttered,  clenching  his  fists. 

"And  where  is  Marcus  Ivanovitch?"  asked 
Dukovski  in  a  low  voice. 

"Mind  your  own  business!"  Chubikoff  an- 
swered roughly.  "Be  good  enough  to  examine  the 
floor!  This  is  not  the  first  case  of  the  kind  I  have 
had  to  deal  with!  Eugraph  Kuzmitch,"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  inspector,  and  lowering  his  voice, 
"in  1870  I  had  another  case  like  this.  But  you 
must  remember  it — the  murder  of  the  merchant 
233 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Portraitoff.  It  was  just  the  same  there.  The 
scoundrels  murdered  him,  and  dragged  the  corpse 
out  through  the  window — " 

Chubikoff  went  up  to  the  window,  pulled  the 
curtain  to  one  side,  and  carefully  pushed  the  window. 
The  window  opened. 

"It  opens,  you  see!  It  wasn't  fastened.  Hm! 
There  are  tracks  under  the  window.  Look!  There 
is  the  track  of  a  knee!  Somebody  got  in  there. 
We  must  examine  the  window  thoroughly." 

"  There  is  nothing  special  to  be  found  on  the  floor, " 
said  Dukovski.  "No  stains  or  scratches.  The 
only  thing  I  found  was  a  struck  safety  match.  Here 
it  is!  So  far  as  I  remember,  Marcus  Ivanovitch 
did  not  smoke.  And  he  always  used  sulphur  matches, 
never  safety  matches.  Perhaps  this  safety  match 
may  serve  as  a  clew!" 

"Oh,  do  shut  up!"  cried  the  magistrate  deprecat- 
ingly.  "You  go  on  about  your  match!  I  can't 
abide  these  dreamers!  Instead  of  chasing  matches, 
you  had  better  examine  the  bed!" 

After  a  thorough  examination  of  the  bed,  Du- 
kovski reported: 

"There  are  no  spots,  either  of  blood  or  of  any- 
thing else.  There  are  likewise  no  new  torn  places. 
On  the  pillow  there  are  signs  of  teeth.  The  quilt  is 
stained  with  something  which  looks  like  beer  and 
smells  like  beer.  The  general  aspect  of  the  bed 
gives  grounds  for  thinking  that  a  struggle  took 
place  on  it." 

234 


The  Safety  Match 

"I  know  there  was  a  struggle,  without  your 
telling  me!  You  are  not  being  asked  about  a 
struggle.  Instead  of  looking  for  struggles,  you 
had  better—  " 

"Here  is  one  top  boot,  but  there  is  no  sign  of  the 
other." 

"Well,  and  what  of  that?" 

"It  proves  that  they  strangled  him,  while  he  was 
taking  his  boots  off.  He  hadn't  time  to  take  the 
second  boot  off  when — " 

"There  you  go! — and  how  do  you  know  they 
strangled  him?  " 

"There  are  marks  of  teeth  on  the  pillow.  The 
pillow  itself  is  badly  crumpled,  and  thrown  a  couple 
of  yards  from  the  bed." 

"Listen  to  his  foolishness!  Better  come  into  the 
garden.  You  would  be  better  employed  examining 
the  garden  than  digging  around  here.  I  can  do  that 
without  you!" 

When  they  reached  the  garden  they  began  by 
examining  the  grass.  The  grass  under  the  window 
was  crushed  and  trampled.  A  bushy  burdock 
growing  under  the  window  close  to  the  wall  was  also 
trampled.  Dukovski  succeeded  hi  finding  on  it 
some  broken  twigs  and  a  piece  of  cotton  wool.  On 
the  upper  branches  were  found  some  fine  hairs  of 
dark  blue  wool. 

"What  colour  was  his  last  suit?"  Dukovski 
asked  Psyekoff. 

"Yellow  crash." 

235 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Excellent!    You  see  they  wore  blue!" 

A  few  twigs  of  the  burdock  were  cut  off,  and  care- 
fully wrapped  in  paper  by  the  investigators.  At 
this  point  Police  Captain  Artsuybasheff  Svistakovski 
and  Dr.  Tyutyeff  arrived.  The  captain  bade  them 
"Good  day!"  and  immediately  began  to  satisfy  his 
curiosity.  The  doctor,  a  tall,  very  lean  man,  with 
dull  eyes,  a  long  nose,  and  a  pointed  chin,  without 
greeting  anyone  or  asking  about  anything,  sat 
down  on  a  log,  sighed,  and  began: 

"The  Servians  are  at  war  again!  What  in 
heaven's  name  can  they  want  now?  Austria,  it's  all 
your  doing!" 

The  examination  of  the  window  from  the  outside 
did  not  supply  any  conclusive  data.  The  examina- 
tion of  the  grass  and  the  bushes  nearest  to  the 
window  yielded  a  series  of  useful  clews.  For  ex- 
ample, Dukovski  succeeded  in  discovering  a  long, 
dark  streak,  made  up  of  spots,  on  the  grass,  which 
led  some  distance  into  the  centre  of  the  garden. 
The  streak  ended  under  one  of  the  lilac  bushes  in 
a  dark  brown  stain.  Under  this  same  lilac  bush 
was  found  a  top  boot,  which  turned  out  to  be  the 
fellow  of  the  boot  already  found  in  the  bedroom. 

"That  is  a  blood  stain  made  some  time  ago,"  said 
Dukovski,  examining  the  spot. 

At  the  word  "blood"  the  doctor  rose,  and  going 
over  lazily,  looked  at  the  spot. 

"Yes,  it  is  blood!"  he  muttered. 

"That  shows  he  wasn't  strangled,  if  there  was 
236 


The  Safety  Match 

blood,"  said  Chubikoff,  looking  sarcastically  at 
Dukovski. 

"They  strangled  him  in  the  bedroom;  and  here, 
fearing  he  might  come  round  again,  they  struck  him 
a  blow  with  some  sharp-pointed  instrument.  The 
stain  under  the  bush  proves  that  he  lay  there  a 
considerable  time,  while  they  were  looking  about  for 
some  way  of  carrying  him  out  of  the  garden." 

"Well,  and  how  about  the  boot?" 

"The  boot  confirms  completely  my  idea  that  they 
murdered  him  while  he  was  taking  his  boots  off 
before  going  to  bed.  He  had  already  taken  off 
one  boot,  and  the  other,  this  one  here,  he  had 
only  had  time  to  take  half  off.  The  half-off  boot 
came  off  of  itself,  while  the  body  was  dragged 
over,  and  fell — " 

"There's  a  lively  imagination  for  you!"  laughed 
Chubikoff.  "He  goes  on  and  on  like  that!  When 
will  you  learn  enough  to  drop  your  deductions? 
Instead  of  arguing  and*  deducing,  it  would  be  much 
better  if  you  took  some  of  the  blood-stained  grass  for 
analysis!" 

When  they  had  finished  their  examination,  and 
drawn  a  plan  of  the  locality,  the  investigators  went 
to  the  director's  office  to  write  their  report  and  have 
breakfast.  While  they  were  breakfasting  they  went 
on  talking: 

"The  watch,  the  money,  and  so  on — all  un- 
touched— "  Chubikoff  began,  leading  off  the  talk, 
"show  as  clearly  as  that  two  and  two  are  four  that 
237 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

the  murder  was  not  committed  for  the  purpose  of 
robbery." 

"The  murder  was  committed  by  an  educated 
man!"  insisted  Dukovski. 

"What  evidence  have  you  of  that?" 

"The  safety  match  proves  that  to  me,  for  the 
peasants  hereabouts  are  not  yet  acquainted  with 
safety  matches.  Only  the  landowners  use  them, 
and  by  no  means  all  of  them.  And  it  is  evident  that 
there  was  not  one  murderer,  but  at  least  three. 
T*vo  held  him,  while  one  killed  him.  Klausoff  was 
strong,  and  the  murderers  must  have  known  it!" 

"What  good  would  his  strength  be,  supposing  he 
was  asleep?" 

"The  murderers  came  on  him  while  he  was  taking 
off  his  boots.  If  he  was  taking  off  his  boots,  that 
proves  that  he  wasn't  asleep!" 

"Stop  inventing  your  deductions!    Better  eat!" 

"In  my  opinion,  your  worship,"  said  the  gardener 
Ephraim,  setting  the  samovar  on  the  table,  "it  was 
nobody  but  Nicholas  who  did  this  dirty  trick!" 

"Quite  possible,"  said  Psyekoff. 

"And  who  is  Nicholas?" 

"The  master's  valet,  your  worship,"  answered 
Ephraim.  "Who  else  could  it  be?  He's  a  rascal, 
your  worship!  He's  a  drunkard  and  a  blackguard, 
the  like  of  which  Heaven  should  not  permit!  He 
always  took  the  master  his  vodka  and  put  the  master 
to  bed.  Who  else  could  it  be?  And  I  also  venture 
to  point  out  to  your  worship,  he  once  boasted  at 
238 


The  Safety  Match 

the  public  house  that  he  would  kill  the  master!  It 
happened  on  account  of  Aquilina,  the  woman,  you 
know.  He  was  making  up  to  a  soldier's  widow. 
She  pleased  the  master;  the  master  made  friends  with 
her  himself,  and  Nicholas — naturally,  he  was  mad! 
He  is  rolling  about  drunk  in  the  kitchen  now.  He  is 
crying,  and  telling  lies,  saying  he  is  sorry  for  the 
master — " 

The  examining  magistrate  ordered  Nicholas  to  be 
brought.  Nicholas,  a  lanky  young  fellow,  with  a 
long,  freckled  nose,  narrow-chested,  and  wearing  an 
old  jacket  of  his  master's,  entered  Psyekoff' s  room, 
and  bowed  low  before  the  magistrate.  His  face 
was  sleepy  and  tear-stained.  He  was  tipsy  and 
could  hardly  keep  his  feet. 

"Where  is  your  master?"  Chubikoff  asked 
him. 

"Murdered!  your  worship!" 

As  he  said  this,  Nicholas  blinked  and  began  to 
weep. 

"We  know  he  was  murdered.  But  where  is  he 
now?  Where  is  his  body?" 

"They  say  he  was  dragged  out  of  the  window  and 
buried  in  the  garden!" 

"Hum!  The  results  of  the  investigation  are 
known  in  the  kitchen  already !— That's  bad !  Where 
were  you,  my  good  fellow,  the  night  the  master  was 
murdered?  Saturday  night,  that  is." 

Nicholas  raised  his  head,  stretched  his  neck,  and 
began  to  think. 

239 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"I  don't  know,  your  worship,"  he  said.  "I  was 
drunk  and  don't  remember." 

"An  alibi!"  whispered  Dukovski,  smiling,  and 
rubbing  his  hands. 

"  So-o !  And  why  is  there  blood  under  the  master's 
window?  " 

Nicholas  jerked  his  head  up  and  considered. 

"Hurry  up!"  said  the  Captain  of  Police. 

"Right  away!  That  blood  doesn't  amount  to 
anything,  your  worship!  I  was  cutting  a  chicken's 
throat.  I  was  doing  it  quite  simply,  in  the  usual 
way,  when  all  of  a  sudden  it  broke  away  and  started 
to  run.  That  is  where  the  blood  came  from." 

Ephraim  declared  that  Nicholas  did  kill  a  chicken 
every  evening,  and  always  in  some  new  place,  but 
that  nobody  ever  heard  of  a  half-killed  chicken 
running  about  the  garden,  though  of  course  it 
wasn't  impossible. 

"An  alibi,"  sneered  Dukovski;  "and  what  an 
asinine  alibi!" 

"Did  you  know  Aquilina?" 

"Yes,  your  worship,  I  know  her." 

"And  the  master  cut  you  out  with  her?" 

"Not  at  all.  He  cut  me  out — Mr.  Psyekoff  there, 
Ivan  Mikhailovitch;  and  the  master  cut  Ivan- 
Mikhailovitch  out.  That  is  how  it  was." 

Psyekoff  grew  confused  and  began  to  scratch  his 

left    eye.    Dukovski   looked   at   him    attentively, 

noted  his  confusion,  and  started.    He  noticed  that 

the  director  had  dark  blue  trousers,  which  he  had 

240 


The  Safety  Match 

not  observed  before.  The  trousers  reminded  him 
of  the  dark  blue  threads  found  on  the  burdock. 
Chubikoff  in  his  turn  glanced  suspiciously  at  Psye- 
koff. 

"Go!"  he  said  to  Nicholas.  "And  now  permit 
me  to  put  a  question  to  you,  Mr.  Psyekoff.  Of 
course  you  were  here  last  Saturday  evening?" 

"Yes!  I  had  supper  with  Marcus  Ivanovitch 
about  ten  o'clock." 

"And  afterward?" 

"Afterward — afterward —  Really,  I  do  not  re- 
member," stammered  Psyekoff.  "I  had  a  good 
deal  to  drink  at  supper.  I  don't  remember  when  or 
where  I  went  to  sleep.  Why  are  you  all  looking  at 
me  like  that,  as  if  I  was  the  murderer?  " 

"Where  were  you  when  you  woke  up?" 

"I  was  in  the  servants'  kitchen,  lying  behind  the 
stove!  They  can  all  confirm  it.  How  I  got  behind 
the  stove  I  don't  know — " 

"Do  not  get  agitated.  Did  you  know  Aqui- 
lina?" 

"There's  nothing  extraordinary  about  that — " 

"She  first  liked  you  and  then  preferred  Klausoff?" 

"Yes.  Ephraim,  give  us  some  more  mush- 
rooms! Do  you  want  some  more  tea,  Eugraph 
Kuzmitch?" 

A  heavy,  oppressive  silence  began  and  lasted  fully 
five  minutes.    Dukovski  silently  kept  his  piercing 
eyes  fixed  on  Psyekoff's  pale  face.    The  silence  was 
finally  broken  by  the  examining  magistrate: 
241 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"We  must  go  to  the  house  and  talk  with  Maria 
Ivanovna,  the  sister  of  the  deceased.  Perhaps  she 
may  be  able  to  supply  some  clews." 

Chubikoff  and  his  assistant  expressed  their  thanks 
for  the  breakfast,  and  went  toward  the  house.  They 
found  Klausoff's  sister,  Maria  Ivanovna,  an  old  maid 
of  forty-five,  at  prayer  before  the  big  case  of  family 
icons.  When  she  saw  the  portfolios  in  her  guests' 
hands,  and  their  official  caps,  she  grew  pale. 

"Let  me  begin  by  apologizing  for  disturbing,  so 
to  speak,  your  devotions,"  began  the  gallant  Chubi- 
koff, bowing  and  scraping.  "  We  have  come  to  you 
with  a  request.  Of  course,  you  have  heard  already. 
There  is  a  suspicion  that  your  dear  brother,  in  some 
way  or  other,  has  been  murdered.  The  will  of  God, 
you  know.  No  one  can  escape  death,  neither  czar 
nor  ploughman.  Could  you  not  help  us  with  some 
clew,  some  explanation — ?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me!"  said  Maria  Ivanovna,  grow- 
ing still  paler,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"I  can  tell  you  nothing.  Nothing!  I  beg  you!  I 
know  nothing —  What  can  I  do?  Oh,  no!  no! — 
not  a  word  about  my  brother!  If  I  die,  I  won't  say 
anything!" 

Maria  Ivanovna  began  to  weep,  and  left  the  room. 
The  investigators  looked  at  each  other,  shrugged 
their  shoulders,  and  beat  a  retreat. 

"Confound  the  woman!"  scolded  Dukovski,  going 
out  of  the  house.  "It  is  clear  she  knows  some- 
thing, and  is  concealing  it!  And  the  chambermaid 
242 


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has  a  queer  expression  too!    Wait,  you  wretches! 
We'll  ferret  it  all  out!" 

In  the  evening  Chubikoff  and  his  deputy,  lit  on 
their  road  by  the  pale  moon,  wended  their  way 
homeward.  They  sat  in  their  carriage  and  thought 
over  the  results  of  the  day.  Both  were  tired  and 
kept  silent.  Chubikoff  was  always  unwilling  to 
talk  while  travelling,  and  the  talkative  Dukovski 
remained  silent,  to  fall  in  with  the  elder  man's 
humour.  But  at  the  end  of  their  journey  the 
deputy  could  hold  in  no  longer,  and  said: 

"It  is  quite  certain,"  he  said,  "that  Nicholas  had 
something  to  do  with  the  matter.  Non  dubitandum 
etst  You  can  see  by  his  face  what  sort  of  a  case  he 
is!  His  alibi  betrays  him,  body  and  bones.  But 
it  is  also  certain  that  he  did  not  set  the  thing  going. 
He  was  only  the  stupid  hired  tool.  You  agree? 
And  the  humble  Psyekoff  was  not  without  some 
slight  share  hi  the  matter.  His  dark  blue  breeches, 
his  agitation,  his  lying  behind  the  stove  in  terror 
after  the  murder,  his  alibi  and — Aquilina — " 

"'Grind  away,  Emilian;  it's  your  week!'  So, 
according  to  you,  whoever  knew  Aquilina  is  the 
murderer!  Hothead!  You  ought  to  be  sucking  a 
bottle,  and  not  handling  affairs!  You  were  one  of 
Aquilina's  admirers  yourself — does  it  follow  that 
you  are  implicated  too?  " 

"Aquilina  was  cook  in  your  house  for  a  month. 
I  am  saying  nothing  about  that!    The  night  before 
that  Saturday  I  was  playing  cards  with  jrou,  and 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

saw  you,  otherwise  I  should  be  after  you  too!  It 
isn't  the  woman  that  matters,  old  chap!  It  is  the 
mean,  nasty,  low  spirit  of  jealousy  that  matters. 
The  retiring  young  man  was  not  pleased  when  they 
got  the  better  of  him,  you  see!  His  vanity,  don't 
you  see?  He  wanted  revenge.  Then,  those  thick 
lips  of  his  suggest  passion.  So  there  you  have  it: 
wounded  self-love  and  passion.  That  is  quite 
enough  motive  for  a  murder.  We  have  two  of 
them  in  our  hands;  but  who  is  the  third?  Nicholas 
and  Psyekoff  held  him,  but  who  smothered  him? 
Psyekoff  is  shy,  timid,  an  all-round  coward.  And 
Nicholas  would  not  know  how  to  smother  with  a 
pillow.  His  sort  use  an  axe  or  a  club.  Some  third 
person  did  the  smothering;  but  who  was  it?" 

Dukovski  crammed  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes 
and  pondered.  He  remained  silent  until  the  car- 
riage rolled  up  to  the  magistrate's  door. 

"Eureka!"  he  said,  entering  the  little  house  and 
throwing  off  his  overcoat.  "Eureka,  Nicholas 
Yermolaiyevitch!  The  only  thing  I  can't  under- 
stand is,  how  it  did  not  occur  to  me  sooner!  Do  you 
know  who  the  third  person  was?" 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake,  shut  up!  There  is 
supper!  Sit  down  to  your  evening  meal!" 

The  magistrate  and  Dukovski  sat  down  to  supper. 
Dukovski  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  vodka,  rose, 
drew  himself  up,  and  said,  with  sparkling  eyes: 

"Well,  learn  that  the  third  person,  who  acted  in 
concert  with  that  scoundrel  Psyekoff,  and  did  the 
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The  Safety  Match 

smothering,  was  a  woman!  Yes-s!  I  mean — the 
murdered  man's  sister,  Maria  Ivanovna!" 

Chubikoff  choked  over  his  vodka,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  Dukovski. 

"You  aren't — what's-its-name?  Your  head  isn't 
what-do-you-call-it?  You  haven't  a  pain  in  it?" 

"I  am  perfectly  well!  Very  well,  let  us  say  that 
I  am  crazy;  but  how  do  you  explain  her  confusion 
when  we  appeared?  How  do  you  explain  her  un- 
willingness to  give  us  any  information?  Let  us 
admit  that  these  are  trifles.  Very  well!  All  right! 
But  remember  their  relations.  She  detested  her 
brother.  She  never  forgave  him  for  living  apart 
from  his  wife.  She  of  the  Old  Faith,  while  in  her 
eyes  he  is  a  godless  profligate.  There  is  where  the 
germ  of  her  hate  was  hatched.  They  say  he  suc- 
ceeded in  making  her  believe  that  he  was  an  angel  of 
Satan.  He  even  went  in  for  spiritualism  in  her 
presence!" 

"Well,  what  of  that?" 

"  You  don't  understand?  She,  as  a  member  of  the 
Old  Faith,  murdered  him  through  fanaticism.  It 
was  not  only  that  she  was  putting  to  death  a  weed, 
a  profligate — she  was  freeing  the  world  of  an  anti- 
christ!— and  there,  in  her  opinion,  was  her  service, 
her  religious  achievement!  Oh,  you  don't  know 
those  old  maids  of  the  Old  Faith.  Read  Dostoyev- 
sky!  And  what  does  Lyeskoff  say  about  them,  or 
Petcherski?  It  was  she,  and  nobody  else,  even  if 
you  cut  me  open.  She  smothered  him!  Otreacher- 
245 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

ous  woman!  wasn't  that  the  reason  why  she  was 
kneeling  before  the  icons,  when  we  came  in,  just  to 
take  our  attention  away?  'Let  me  kneel  down  and 
pray,'  she  said  to  herself,  'and  they  will  think  I  am 
tranquil  and  did  not  expect  them!'  That  is  the 
plan  of  all  novices  in  crime,  Nicholas  Yermolaiye- 
vitch,  old  pal!  My  dear  old  man,  won't  you  intrust 
this  business  to  me?  Let  me  personally  bring  it 
through!  Friend,  I  began  it  and  I  will  finish  it!" 

Chubikoff  shook  his  head  and  frowned. 

"We  know  how  to  manage  difficult  matters  our- 
selves," he  said;  "and  your  business  is  not  to  push 
yourself  in  where  you  don't  belong.  Write  from 
dictation  when  you  are  dictated  to;  that  is  your 
job!" 

Dukovski  flared  up,  banged  the  door,  and  dis- 
appeared. 

"Clever  rascal!"  muttered  Chubikoff,  glancing 
after  him.  "Awfully  clever!  But  too  much  of  a 
hothead.  I  must  buy  him  a  cigar  case  at  the  fair  as 
a  present." 

The  next  day,  early  in  the  morning,  a  young  man 
with  a  big  head  and  a  pursed-up  mouth,  who  came 
from  Klausoff's  place,  was  introduced  to  the  magis- 
trate's office.  He  said  he  was  the  shepherd  Daniel, 
and  brought  a  very  interesting  piece  of  information. 

"I  was  a  bit  drunk,"  he  said.    "I  was  with  my 

pal  till  midnight.    On  my  way  home,  as  I  was 

drunk,  I  went  into  the  river  for  a  bath.    I  was 

taking  a  bath,  when  I  looked  up.    Two  men  were 

246 


The  Safety  Match 

walking  along  the  dam,  carrying  something  black. 
'Shoo!'  I  cried  at  them.  They  got  scared,  and 
went  off  like  the  wind  toward  Makareff's  cabbage 
garden.  Strike  me  dead,  if  they  weren't  carrying 
away  the  master!" 

That  same  day,  toward  evening,  Psyekoff  and 
Nicholas  were  arrested  and  brought  under  guard  to 
the  district  town.  In  the  town  they  were  com- 
mitted to  the  cells  of  the  prison. 


A  fortnight  passed. 

It  was  morning.  The  magistrate  Nicholas  Yer- 
molaiyevitch  was  sitting  in  his  office  before  a  green 
table,  turning  over  the  papers  of  the  "Klausoff 
case  " ;  Dukovski  was  striding  restlessly  up  and  down 
like  a  wolf  in  a  cage. 

"You  are  convinced  of  the  guilt  of  Nicholas  and 
Psyekoff, "  he  said,  nervously  plucking  at  his  young 
.beard.  "Why  will  you  not  believe  in  the  guilt  of 
Maria  Ivanovna?  Are  there  not  proofs  enough  for 
you?" 

"I  don't  say  I  am  not  convinced.  I  am  con- 
vinced, but  somehow  I  don't  believe  it!  There  are 
no  real  proofs,  but  just  a  kind  of  philosophizing — 
fanaticism,  this  and  that — " 

"You  can't  do  without  an  axe  and  bloodstained 

sheets.    Those  jurists!    Very  well,  I'll  prove  it  to 

you!    You  will  stop  sneering  at  the  psychological 

side  of  the  affair!    To  Siberia  with  your  Maria 

247 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Ivanovna!  I  will  prove  it!  If  philosophy  is  not 
enough  for  you,  I  have  something  substantial  for 
you.  It  will  show  you  how  correct  my  philosophy 
is.  Just  give  me  permission — " 

"  What  are  you  going  on  about?  " 

"About  the  safety  match!  Have  you  forgotten 
it?  I  haven't!  I  am  going  to  find  out  who  struck 
it  in  the  murdered  man's  room.  It  was  not  Nicholas 
that  struck  it;  it  was  not  Psyekoff,  for  neither  of 
them  had  any  matches  when  they  were  examined;  it 
was  the  third  person,  Maria  Ivanovna.  I  will 
prove  it  to  you.  Just  give  me  permission  to  go 
through  the  district  to  find  out." 

"That's  enough!  Sit  down.  Let  us  go  on  with 
the  examination." 

Dukovski  sat  down  at  a  little  table,  and  plunged 
his  long  nose  in  a  bundle  of  papers. 

"Bring  in  Nicholas  Tetekhoff!"  cried  the  ex- 
amining magistrate. 

They  brought  Nicholas  in.  Nicholas  was  pale  and 
thin  as  a  rail.  He  was  trembling. 

"Tetekhoff!"  began  Chubikoff.  "In  1879  you 
were  tried  in  the  Court  of  the  First  Division,  con- 
victed of  theft,  and  sentenced  to  imprisonment.  In 
1882  you  were  tried  a  second  time  for  theft,  and  were 
again  imprisoned.  We  know  all — " 

Astonishment  was  depicted  on  Nicholas's  face. 

The   examining  magistrate's  omniscience   startled 

him.    But   soon   his    expression    of    astonishment 

changed  to  extreme  indignation.    He  began  to  cry 

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The  Safety  Match 

and  requested  permission  to  go  and  wash  his  face 
and  quiet  down.    They  led  him  away. 

"Bring  in  Psyekoff!"  ordered  the  examining 
magistrate. 

They  brought  in  Psyekoff.  The  young  man  had 
changed  greatly  during  the  last  few  days.  He  had 
grown  thin  and  pale,  and  looked  haggard.  His 
eyes  had  an  apathetic  expression. 

"Sit  down,  Psyekoff,"  said  Chubikoff.  "I  hope 
that  to-day  you  are  going  to  be  reasonable,  and  will 
not  tell  lies,  as  you  did  before.  All  these  days  you 
have  denied  that  you  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
murder  of  Klausoff,  in  spite  of  ail  the  proofs  that 
testify  against  you.  That  is  foolish.  Confession 
will  lighten  your  guilt.  This  is  the  last  time  I  am 
going  to  talk  to  you.  If  you  do  not  confess  to-day, 
to-morrow  it  will  be  too  late.  Come,  tell  me  all — " 
"I  know  nothing  about  it.  I  know  nothing 
about  your  proofs,"  answered  Psyekoff,  almost 
inaudibly. 

"It's  no  use!  Well,  let  me  relate  to  you  how  the 
matter  took  place.  On  Saturday  evening  you  were 
sitting  in  Klausoff's  sleeping  room,  and  drinking 
vodka  and  beer  with  him."  (Dukovski  fixed  his 
eyes  on  Psyekoff's  face,  and  kept  them  there  all 
through  the  examination.)  "Nicholas  was  waiting 
on  you.  At  one  o'clock,  Marcus  Ivanovitch  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  going  to  bed.  He  always 
went  to  bed  at  one  o'clock.  When  he  was  taking 
off  his  boots,  and  was  giving  you  directions  about 
249 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

details  of  management,  you  and  Nicholas,  at  a  given 
signal,  seized  your  drunken  master  and  threw  him 
on  the  bed.  One  of  you  sat  on  his  legs,  the  other 
on  his  head.  Then  a  third  person  came  in  from  the 
passage — a  woman  in  a  black  dress,  whom  you 
know  well,  and  who  had  previously  arranged  with 
you  as  to  her  share  in  your  criminal  deed.  She 
seized  a  pillow  and  began  to  smother  him.  While 
the  struggle  was  going  on  the  candle  went  out. 
The  woman  took  a  box  of  safety  matches  from  her 
pocket,  and  lit  the  candle.  Was  it  not  so?  I  see 
by  your  face  that  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  But  to 
go  on.  After  you  had  smothered  him,  and  saw  that 
he  had  ceased  breathing,  you  and  Nicholas  pulled 
him  out  through  the  window  and  laid  him  down  near 
the  burdock.  Fearing  that  he  might  come  round 
again,  you  struck  him  with  something  sharp.  Then 
you  carried  him  away,  and  laid  him  down  under  a 
lilac  bush  for  a  short  time.  After  resting  awhile  and 
considering,  you  carried  him  across  the  fence.  Then 
you  entered  the  road.  After  that  comes  the  dam. 
Near  the  dam,  a  peasant  frightened  you.  Well, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"  I  am  suffocating ! ' '  replied  Psyekoff .     "  Very  well 
— have  it  so.    Only  let  me  go  out,  please!" 

They  led  Psyekoff  away. 

"At  last!    He  has  confessed!"  cried  Chubikoff, 
stretching  himself  luxuriously.     "He  has  betrayed 
himself!    And  didn't  I  get  round  him  cleverly  1 
Regularly  caught  him  napping — " 
250 


The  Safety  Match 

"And  he  doesn't  deny  the  woman  in  the  black 
dress!"  exulted  Dukovski.  "But  all  the  same, 
that  safety  match  is  tormenting  me  frightfully.  I 
can't  stand  it  any  longer.  Good-bye!  I  am  off!" 

Dukovski  put  on  his  cap  and  drove  off.  Chubi- 
koff  began  to  examine  Aquilina.  Aquilina  declared 
that  she  knew  nothing  whatever  about  it. 

At  six  that  evening  Dukovski  returned.  He  was 
more  agitated  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  His 
hands  trembled  so  that  he  could  not  even  unbutton 
his  greatcoat.  His  cheeks  glowed.  It  was  clear 
that  he  did  not  come  empty-handed. 

"Veni,  vidi,  vici!"  he  cried,  rushing  into  Chubi- 
koff's  room,  and  falling  into  an  armchair.  "I  swear 
to  you  on  my  honour,  I  begin  to  believe  that  I  am  a 
genius!  Listen,  devil  take  us  all!  It  is  funny,  and 
it  is  sad.  We  have  caught  three  already — isn't  that 
so?  Well,  I  have  found  the  fourth,  and  a  woman  at 
that.  You  will  never  believe  who  it  is!  But  listen. 
I  went  to  Klausoff's  village,  and  began  to  make  a 
spiral  round  it.  I  visited  all  the  little  shops,  public 
houses,  dram  shops  on  the  road,  everywhere  asking 
for  safety  matches.  Everywhere  they  said  they 
hadn't  any.  I  made  a  wide  round.  Twenty  times 
I  lost  faith,  and  twenty  times  I  got  it  back  again.  I 
knocked  about  the  whole  day,  and  only  an  hour 
ago  I  got  on  the  track.  Three  versts  from  here. 
They  gave  me  a  packet  of  ten  boxes.  One  box  was 
missing.  Immediately:  'Who  bought  the  other 
box?'  'Such-a-one!  She  was  pleased  with  them!' 
251 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Old  man!  Nicholas  Yermolaiyevitch !  See  what  a 
fellow  who  was  expelled  from  the  seminary  and  who 
has  read  Gaboriau  can  do!  From  to-day  on  I  begin 
to  respect  myself !  Oof !  Well,  come ! ' ' 

"Come  where?" 

"To  her,  to  number  four!  We  must  hurry,  other- 
wise— otherwise  I'll  burst  with  impatience!  Do 
you  know  who  she  is?  You'll  never  guess!  Olga 
Petrovna,  Marcus  Ivanovitch's  wife — his  own  wife — 
that's  who  it  is!  She  is  the  person  who  bought  the 
matchbox!" 

"You — you — you  are  out  of  your  mind!" 

"It's  quite  simple!  To  begin  with,  she  smokes. 
Secondly,  she  was  head  and  ears  in  love  with  Klaus- 
off,  even  after  he  refused  to  live  in  the  same  house 
with  her,  because  she  was  always  scolding  his  head 
off.  Why,  they  say  she  used  to  beat  him  because 
she  loved  him  so  much.  And  then  he  positively 
refused  to  stay  in  the  same  house.  Love  turned 
sour.  'Hell  hath  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned.' 
But  come  along !  Quick,  or  it  will  be  dark.  Come ! " 

"  I  am  not  yet  sufficiently  crazy  to  go  and  disturb 
a  respectable  honourable  woman  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  for  a  crazy  boy!" 

"  Respectable,  honourable !  Do  honourable  women 
murder  their  husbands?  After  that  you  are  a  rag, 
and  not  an  examining  magistrate!  I  never  ven- 
tured to  call  you  names  before,  but  now  you  compel 
me  to.  Rag !  Dressing-gown ! — Dear  Nicholas  Yer- 
molaiyevitch, do  come,  I  beg  of  you — !" 
252 


The  Safety  Match 

The  magistrate  made  a  deprecating  motion  with 
his  hand. 

"I  beg  of  you!  I  ask,  not  for  myself,  but  in  the 
interests  of  justice.  I  beg  you!  I  implore  you! 
Do  what  I  ask  you  to,  just  this  once!" 

Dukovski  went  down  on  his  knees. 

"Nicholas  Yermolaiyevitch!  Be  kind!  Call  me 
a  blackguard,  a  ne'er-do-weel,  if  I  am  mistaken 
about  this  woman.  You  see  what  an  affair  it  is. 
What  a  case  it  is.  A  romance !  A  woman  murdering 
her  own  husband  for  love!  The  fame  of  it  will  go 
all  over  Russia.  They  will  make  you  investigator 
in  all  important  cases.  Understand,  O  foolish  old 
man!" 

The  magistrate  frowned,  and  undecidedly  stretched 
his  hand  toward  his  cap. 

"Oh,  the  devil  take  you!"  he  said.  "Let  us 
go!" 

It  was  dark  when  the  magistrate's  carriage  rolled 
up  to  the  porch  of  the  old  country  house  in  which 
Olga  Petrovna  had  taken  refuge  with  her  brother. 

"What  pigs  we  are,"  said  Chubikoff,  taking  hold 
of  the  bell,  "to  disturb  a  poor  woman  like  this!" 

"It's  all  right!  It's  all  right!  Don't  get  fright- 
ened! We  can  say  that  we  have  broken  a  spring." 

Chubikoff  and  Dukovski  were  met  at  the  thresh- 
old by  a  tall  buxom  woman  of  three  and  twenty, 
with  pitch-black  brows  and  juicy  red  lips.  It  was 
Olga  Petrovna  herself,  apparently  not  the  least 
distressed  by  the  recent  tragedy. 
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Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

"Oh,  what  a  pleasant  surprise!"  she  said,  smiling 
broadly.  "  You  are  just  in  time  for  supper.  Kuzma 
Petrovitch  is  not  at  home.  He  is  visiting  the  priest, 
and  has  stayed  late.  But  we'll  get  on  without  him! 
Be  seated.  You  have  come  from  the  examination?  " 

"Yes.  We  broke  a  spring,  you  know,"  began 
Chubikoff,  entering  the  sitting  room  and  sinking 
into  an  armchair. 

"Take  her  unawares — at  once!"  whispered  Du- 
kovski;  "take  her  unawares!" 

"A  spring — hum — yes — so  we  came  in." 

"Take  her  unawares,  I  tell  you!  She  will  guess 
what  the  matter  is  if  you  drag  things  out  like  that." 

"Well,  do  it  yourself  as  you  want.  But  let  me 
get  out  of  it,"  muttered  Chubikoff,  rising  and  going 
to  the  window. 

"Yes,  a  spring,"  began  Dukovski,  going  close  to 
Olga  Petrovna  and  wrinkling  his  long  nose.  "We 
did  not  drive  over  here — to  take  supper  with  you  or 
— to  see  Kuzma  Petrovitch.  We  came  here  to  ask 
you,  respected  madam,  where  Marcus  Ivanovitch  is, 
whom  you  murdered!" 

"What?  Marcus  Ivanovitch  murdered?"  stam- 
mered Olga  Petrovna,  and  her  broad  face  suddenly 
and  instantaneously  flushed  bright  scarlet.  "I 
don't — understand ! " 

"I  ask  you  hi  the  name  of  the  law!  Where  is 
Klausoff?  We  know  all!" 

"Who  told  you?"  Olga  Petrovna  asked  in  a  low 
voice,  unable  to  endure  Dukovski's  glance. 
254 


The  Safety  Match 

"Be  so  good  as  to  show  us  where  he  is!" 

"But  how  did  you  find  out?    Who  told  you?" 

"We  know  all!  I  demand  it  in  the  name  of  the 
law!" 

The  examining  magistrate,  emboldened  by  her 
confusion,  came  forward  and  said: 

"Show  us,  and  we  will  go  away.  Otherwise, 
we—" 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?" 

"  Madam,  what  is  the  use  of  these  questions?  We 
ask  you  to  show  us!  You  tremble,  you  are  agitated. 
Yes,  he  has  been  murdered,  and,  if  you  must  have  it, 
murdered  by  you !  Your  accomplices  have  betrayed 
you!" 

Olga  Petrovna  grew  pale. 

"Come!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  wringing  her 
hands. 

"I  have  him — hid — in  the  bath  house!  Only  for 
heaven's  sake,  do  not  tell  Kuzma  Petrovitch.  I  beg 
and  implore  you!  He  will  never  forgive  me!" 

Olga  Petrovna  took  down  a  big  key  from  the  wall, 
and  led  her  guests  through  the  kitchen  and  passage 
to  the  courtyard.  The  courtyard  was  in  darkness. 
Fine  rain  was  falling.  Olga  Petrovna  walked  in 
advance  of  them.  Chubikoff  and  Dukovski  strode 
behind  her  through  the  long  grass,  as  the  odour  of 
wild  hemp  and  dishwater  splashing  under  their  feet 
reached  them.  The  courtyard  was  wide.  Soon 
the  dishwater  ceased,  and  they  felt  freshly  broken 
earth  under  their  feet.  In  the  darkness  appeared 
255 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

the  shadowy  outlines  of  trees,  and  among  the  trees 
a  little  house  with  a  crooked  chimney. 

"That  is  the  bath  house,"  said  Olga  Petrovna. 
"But  I  implore  you,  do  not  tell  my  brother!  If 
you  do,  I'll  never  hear  the  end  of  it!" 

Going  up  to  the  bath  house,  Chubikoff  and 
Dukovski  saw  a  huge  padlock  on  the  door. 

"  Get  your  candle  and  matches  ready, "  whispered 
the  examining  magistrate  to  his  deputy. 

Olga  Petrovna  unfastened  the  padlock,  and  let  her 
guests  into  the  bath  house.  Dukovski  struck  a 
match  and  lit  up  the  anteroom.  In  the  middle  of  the 
anteroom  stood  a  table.  On  the  table,  beside  a 
sturdy  little  samovar,  stood  a  soup  tureen  with  cold 
cabbage  soup  and  a  plate  with  the  remnants  of  some 
sauce. 

"Forward!" 

They  went  into  the  next  room,  where  the  bath 
was.  There  was  a  table  there  also.  On  the  table 
was  a  dish  with  some  ham,  a  bottle  of  vodka,  plates, 
knives,  forks. 

"But  where  is  it — where  is  the  murdered  man?" 
asked  the  examining  magistrate. 

"On  the  top  tier,"  whispered  Olga  Petrovna,  still 
pale  and  trembling. 

Dukovski  took  the  candle  in  his  hand  and  climbed 
up  to  the  top  tier  of  the  sweating  frame.  There  he 
saw  a  long  human  body  lying  motionless  on  a 
large  feather  bed.  A  slight  snore  came  from  the 
body. 

256 


The  Safety  Match 

"You  are  making  fun  of  us,  devil  take  it!"  cried 
Dukovski.  "  That  is  not  the  murdered  man !  Some 
live  fool  is  lying  here.  Here,  whoever  you  are,  the 
devil  take  you!" 

The  body  drew  in  a  quick  breath  and  stirred. 
Dukovski  stuck  his  elbow  into  it.  It  raised  a  hand, 
stretched  itself,  and  lifted  its  head. 

"Who  is  sneaking  in  here?"  asked  a  hoarse, 
heavy  bass.  "  What  do  you  want?  " 

Dukovski  raised  the  candle  to  the  face  of  the 
unknown,  and  cried  out.  In  the  red  nose,  dishevelled, 
unkempt  hair,  the  pitch-black  moustache,  one  of 
which  was  jauntily  twisted  and  pointed  insolently 
toward  the  ceiling,  he  recognized  the  gallant  cavalry- 
man Klausoff. 

"You — Marcus — Ivanovitch?    Is  it  possible?" 

The  examining  magistrate  glanced  sharply  up  at 
him,  and  stood  spellbound. 

"Yes,  it  is  I.  That's  you,  Dukovski?  What  the 
devil  do  you  want  here?  And  who's  that  other  mug 
down  there?  Great  snakes!  It  is  the  examining 
magistrate!  What  fate  has  brought  him  here?" 

Klausoff  rushed  down  and  threw  his  arms  round 
Chubikoff  in  a  cordial  embrace.  Olga  Petrovna 
slipped  through  the  door. 

"How  did  you  come  here?  Let's  have  a  drink, 
devil  take  it!  Tra-ta-ti-to-tum — let  us  drink!  But 
who  brought  you  here?  How  did  you  find  out  that 
I  was  here?  But  it  doesn't  matter!  Let's  have  a 
drink!" 

257 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Klausoff  lit  Jie  lamp  and  poured  out  three  glasses 
of  vodka. 

"That  is — I  don't  understand  you,"  said  the 
examining  magistrate,  running  his  hands  over  him. 
"Is  this  you  or  not  you!" 

"Oh,  shut  up!  You  want  to  preach  me  a  sermon? 
Don't  trouble  yourself!  Young  Dukovski,  empty 
your  glass!  Friends,  let  us  bring  this —  What  are 
you  looking  at?  Drink!" 

"All  the  same,  I  do  not  understand!"  said  the 
examining  magistrate,  mechanically  drinking  off  the 
vodka.  "  Wliat  are  you  here  for?  " 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  here,  if  I  am  all  right  here?" 

Klausoff  drained  his  glass  and  took  a  bite  of  ham. 

"I  am  in  captivity  here,  as  you  see.  In  soli- 
tude, in  a  cavern,  like  a  ghost  or  a  bogey.  Drink! 
She  carried  me  off  and  locked  me  up,  and — well,  I 
am  living  here,  in  the  deserted  bath  house,  like  a 
hermit.  I  am  fed.  Next  week  I  think  I'll  try  to 
get  out.  I'm  tired  of  it  here!" 

"Incomprehensible!"  said  Dukovski. 

"What  is  incomprehensible  about  it?" 

"Incomprehensible!  For  Heaven's  sake,  how  did 
your  boot  get  into  the  garden?" 

"What  boot?" 

"We  found  one  boot  in  the  sleeping  room  and  the 
other  in  the  garden." 

"And  what  do  you  want  to  know  that  for?  It's 
none  of  your  business!  Why  don't  you  drink,  devil 
take  you?  If  you  wakened  me,  then  drink  with  me! 
258 


The  Safety  Match 

It  is  an  interesting  tale,  brother,  that  of  the  boot! 
I  didn't  want  to  go  with  Olga.  I  don't  like  to  be 
bossed.  She  came  under  the  window  and  began  to 
abuse  me.  She  always  was  a  termagant.  You 
know  what  women  are  like,  all  of  them.  I  was  a  bit 
drunk,  so  I  took  a  boot  and  heaved  it  at  her.  Ha- 
ha-ha!  Teach  her  not  to  scold  another  time!  But 
it  didn't!  Not  a  bit  of  it!  She  climbed  in  at  the 
window,  lit  the  lamp,  and  began  to  hammer  poor 
tipsy  me.  She  thrashed  me,  dragged  me  over  here, 
and  locked  me  in.  She  feeds  me  now — on  love, 
vodka,  and  ham!  But  where  are  you  off  to,  Chubi- 
koff  ?  Where  are  you  going?  " 

The  examining  magistrate  swore,  and  left  the  bath 
house.  Dukovski  followed  him,  crestfallen.  They 
silently  took  then-  seats  in  the  carriage  and  drove 
off.  The  road  never  seemed  to  them  so  long  and 
disagreeable  as  it  did  that  tune.  Both  remained 
silent.  Chubikoff  trembled  with  rage  all  the  way. 
Dukovski  hid  his  nose  in  the  collar  of  his  overcoat, 
as  if  he  was  afraid  that  the  darkness  and  the  drizzling 
rain  might  read  the  shame  in  his  face. 

When  they  reached  home,  the  examining  magis- 
trate found  Dr.  Tyutyeff  awaiting  him.  The  doctor 
was  sitting  at  the  table,  and,  sighing  deeply,  was 
turning  over  the  pages  of  the  Neva. 

"Such  goings  on  there  are  in  the  world!"  he  said, 
meeting  the  examining  magistrate  with  a  sad  smile. 
"Austria  is  at  it  again!  And  Gladstone  also  to 
some  extent — " 

259 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Chubikoff  threw  his  cap  under  the  table,  and 
shook  himself. 

"Devils'  skeletons!  Don't  plague  me!  A  thou- 
sand times  I  have  told  you  not  to  bother  me  with 
your  politics!  This  is  no  question  of  politics!  And 
you,"  said  Chubikoff,  turning  to  Dukovski  and 
shaking  his  fist,  "I  won't  forget  this  in  a  thousand 
years!" 

"But  the  safety  match?    How  could  I  know?" 

"Choke  yourself  with  your  safety  match!  Get 
out  of  my  way!  Don't  make  me  mad,  or  the  devil 
only  knows  what  I'll  do  to  you!  Don't  let  me  see  a 
trace  of  you!" 

Dukovski  sighed,  took  his  hat,  and  went  out. 

"I'll  go  and  get  drunk,"  he  decided,  going  through 
the  door,  and  gloomily  wending  his  way  to  the 
public  house. 


260 


vni 

SOME  SCOTLAND  YARD  CASES* 
SIR  ROBERT  ANDERSON 

"TIT  THEN  I  took  charge  of  the  Criminal  Investi- 
V/Y/  gation  Department  I  was  no  novice  in 
matters  relating  to  criminals  and  crime. 
In  addition  to  experience  gained  at  the  Bar  and  on 
the  Prison  Commission,  secret-service  work  had 
kept  me  in  close  touch  with  "Scotland  Yard"  for 
twenty  years,  and  during  all  that  tune  I  had  the 
confidence,  not  only  of  the  chiefs,  but  of  the  principal 
officers  of  the  detective  force.  I  thus  entered  on 
my  duties  with  very  exceptional  advantages. 

I  was  not  a  little  surprised,  therefore,  to  find  occa- 
sion to  suspect  that  one  of  my  principal  subordinates 
was  trying  to  impose  on  me  as  though  I  were  an 
ignoramus.  For  when  any  important  crime  of  a 
certain  kind  occurred,  and  I  set  myself  to  investi- 
gate it  d  la  Sherlock  Holmes,  he  used  to  listen  to  me 
in  the  way  that  so  many  people  listen  to  sermons 
in  church;  and  when  I  was  done  he  would  stolidly 
announce  that  the  crime  was  the  work  of  A,  B,  C,  or 
D,  naming  some  of  his  stock  heroes.  Though  a 

'From  "Criminals  and  Crime." 

261 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

keen  and  shrewd  police  officer,  the  man  was  un- 
imaginative, and  I  thus  accounted  for  the  fact  that 
his  list  was  always  brief,  and  that  the  same  names 
came  up  repeatedly.  It  was  "Old  Carr,"  or 
"Wirth,"  or  "Sausage,"  or  "Shrimps,"  or  "Quiet 
Joe,"  or  "Red  Bob,"  etc.,  etc.,  one  name  or 
another  being  put  forward  according  to  the  kind  of 
crime  I  was  investigating. 

It  was  easy  to  test  my  prosaic  subordinate's 
statements  by  methods  with  which  I  was  familiar 
in  secret-service  work;  and  I  soon  found  that  he  was 
generally  right.  Great  crimes  are  the  work  of  great 
criminals,  and  great  criminals  are  very  few.  And 
by  "great  crimes"  I  mean,  not  crimes  that 
loom  large  iii  the  public  view  because  of  their  moral 
heinousness,  but  crimes  that  are  the  work  of  skilled 
and  resourceful  criminals.  The  problem  in  such 
cases  is  not  to  find  the  offender  in  a  population  of 
many  millions,  but  to  pick  him  out  from  among  a 
few  definitely  known  "specialists"  in  the  particular 
sort  of  crime  under  investigation. 

A  volume  might  be  filled  with  cases  to  illustrate 
my  meaning;  but  a  very  few  must  here  suffice.  It 
fell  upon  a  day,  for  example,  that  a  "ladder  larceny" 
was  committed  at  a  country  house  in  Cheshire.  It 
was  the  usual  story.  While  the  family  were  at 
dinner,  the  house  was  entered  by  means  of  a  ladder 
placed  against  a  bedroom  window,  all  outer  doors 
and  ground-floor  windows  having  been  fastened 
from  outside  by  screws  or  wire  or  rope;  and  wires 
262 


Some  Scotland  Yard  Cases 

were  stretched  across  the  lawn  to  baffle  pursuit  in 
case  the  thieves  were  discovered.  The  next  day  the 
Chief  Constable  of  the  county  called  on  me;  for,  as 
he  said,  such  a  crime  was  beyond  the  capacity  of 
provincial  practitioners,  and  he  expected  us  to  find 
the  delinquents  among  our  pets  at  Scotland  Yard. 
He  gave  me  a  vague  description  of  two  strangers 
who  had  been  seen  near  the  house  the  day  before, 
and  in  return  I  gave  him  three  photographs.  Two 
of  these  were  promptly  identified  as  the  men  who 
had  come  under  observation.  Arrest  and  con- 
viction followed,  and  the  criminals  received  "a 
punishment  suited  to  their  sin."  One  of  them  was 
"Quiet  Joe";  the  other,  his  special  "pal." 

Their  sentences  expired  about  the  time  of  my 
retirement  from  office,  and  thus  my  official  acquaint- 
ance with  them  came  to  an  end.  But  in  the  news- 
paper reports  of  a  similar  case  the  year  after  I  left 
office,  I  recognized  my  old  friends.  Rascals  of  this 
type  are  worth  watching,  and  the  police  had  noticed 
that  they  were  meeting  at  the  Lambeth  Free  Library, 
where  their  special  study  was  provincial  directories 
and  books  of  reference.  They  were  tracked  to  a 
bookshop  where  they  bought  a  map  of  Bristol,  and 
to  other  shops  where  they  procured  the  plant  for  a 
"ladder  larceny."  They  then  booked  for  Bristol 
and  there  took  observations  of  the  suburban  house 
they  had  fixed  upon.  At  this  stage  the  local  detec- 
tives, to  whom  of  course  the  metropolitan  officers 
were  bound  to  give  the  case,  declared  themselves 
263 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

and  seized  the  criminals;  and  the  case  was  disposed 
of  by  a  nine  months'  sentence  on  a  minor  issue. 

Most  people  can  be  wise  after  the  event,  but  even 
that  sort  of  belated  wisdom  seems  lacking  to  the 
legislature  and  the  law.  If  on  the  occasion  of  their 
previous  conviction,  these  men  had  been  asked  what 
they  would  do  on  the  termination  of  their  sentence, 
they  would  have  answered,  "Why,  go  back  to 
business,  of  course;  what  else?"  And  at  Bristol 
they  would  have  replied  with  equal  frankness.  On 
that  occasion  they  openly  expressed  their  gratifica- 
tion that  the  officers  did  not  wait  to  "catch  them 
fair  on  the  job,  as  another  long  stretch  would  about 
finish  them" — a  playful  allusion  to  the  fact  that,  as 
they  were  both  in  their  seventh  decade,  another 
penal  servitude  sentence  would  have  seen  the  end  of 
them;  whereas  their  return  to  the  practice  of  their 
calling  was  only  deferred  for  a  few  months.  Mean- 
while they  would  live  without  expense,  and  a  pa- 
ternal government  would  take  care  that  the  money 
found  hi  their  pockets  on  their  arrest  would  be  re- 
stored to  them  on  their  release,  to  enable  them  to 
buy  more  jimmies  and  wire  and  screws,  so  that  no 
time  would  be  lost  in  getting  to  work.  Such  is  our 
"  punishment-of -crime ' '  system ! 

"Quiet  Joe"  made  a  good  income  by  the  practice 
of  his  profession;  but  he  was  a  thriftless  fellow  who 
spent  his  earnings  freely,  and  never  paid  income 
tax.  "Old  Carr"  was  of  a  different  type.  The 
man  never  did  an  honest  day's  work  in  his  life.  He 
264 


Some  Scotland  Yard  Cases 

was  a  thief,  a  financier  and  trainer  of  thieves,  and  a 
notorious  receiver  of  stolen  property.  But  though 
his  wealth  was  ill-gotten,  he  knew  how  to  hoard  it. 
Upon  his  last  conviction  I  was  appointed  statutory 
"administrator"  of  his  estate.  I  soon  discovered 
that  he  owned  a  good  deal  of  valuable  house  prop- 
erty. But  this  I  declined  to  deal  with,  and  took 
charge  only  of  his  portable  securities  for  money. 
The  value  of  this  part  of  his  estate  may  be  estimated 
by  the  fact  that  on  his  discharge  he  brought  an  action 
against  me  for  mal-administration  of  it,  claiming 
£5000  damages,  and  submitting  detailed  accounts 
in  support  of  his  claim.  Mr.  Augustine  Birrell  was 
my  leading  counsel  in  the  suit;  and  I  may  add  that 
though  the  old  rascal  carried  his  case  to  the  Court 
of  Appeal  he  did  not  get  his  £5000. 

The  man  lived  in  crime  and  by  crime;  and  old 
though  he  was  (he  was  born  in  1828),  and  "rolling 
in  wealth,"  he  at  once  "resumed  the  practice  of  his 
profession."  He  was  arrested  abroad  this  year 
during  a  trip  taken  to  dispose  of  some  stolen  notes, 
the  proceeds  of  a  Liverpool  crime,  and  his  evil  life 
came  to  an  end  in  a  foreign  prison. 

When  I  refused  to  deal  with  Carr's  house  property 
I  allowed  him  to  nominate  a  friend  to  take  charge 
of  it,  and  he  nominated  a  brother  professional,  a 
man  of  the  same  kidney  as  himself,  known  in  police 
circles  as  "Sausage."  A  couple  of  years  later, 
however,  I  learned  from  the  tenants  that  the  agent 
had  disappeared,  and  that  their  cheques  for  rent  had 
265 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

been  returned  to  them.  I  knew  what  that  meant, 
and  at  once  instituted  inquiries  to  find  the  man, 
first  in  the  metropolis  and  then  throughout  the 
provinces;  but  my  inquiries  were  fruitless.  I 
learned,  however,  that,  when  last  at  Scotland  Yard, 
the  man  had  said  with  emphasis  that  "he  would 
never  again  do  anything  at  home."  This  was  in 
answer  to  a  warning  and  an  appeal;  a  warning  that 
he  would  get  no  mercy  if  again  brought  to  justice, 
and  an  appeal  to  change  his  ways,  as  he  had  made 
his  pile  and  could  afford  to  live  in  luxurious  idleness. 
With  this  clue  to  guide  me,  I  soon  learned  that  the 
man's  insatiable  zest  for  crime  had  led  him  to  cross 
the  Channel  in  hope  of  finding  a  safer  sphere  of 
work,  and  that  he  was  serving  a  sentence  in  a  French 
prison. 

No  words,  surely,  can  be  needed  to  point  the 
moral  of  cases  such  as  these.  The  criminals  who 
keep  society  in  a  state  of  siege  are  as  strong  as  they 
are  clever.  If  the  risk  of  a  few  years'  penal  servitude 
on  conviction  gave  place  to  the  certainty  of  final 
loss  of  liberty,  these  professionals  would  put  up 
with  the  tedium  of  an  honest  life.  Lombroso 
theories  have  no  application  to  such  men.  Benson, 
of  the  famous  "Benson  and  Kerr  frauds,"  was  the 
son  of  an  English  clergyman.  He  was  a  man  of  real 
ability,  of  rare  charms  of  manner  and  address,  and 
an  accomplished  linguist.  Upon  the  occasion  of 
one  of  Madame  Patti's  visits  to  America  he  ingrati- 
ated himself  with  the  customs  officers  at  New  York, 
266 


Some  Scotland  Yard  Cases 

and  thus  got  on  board  the  liner  before  the  arrival  of 
the  "Reception  Committee."  He  was  of  course  a 
stranger  to  the  great  singer,  but  she  was  naturally 
charmed  by  his  appearance  and  bearing,  and  the 
perfection  of  his  Italian,  and  she  had  no  reason  to 
doubt  that  he  had  been  commissioned  for  the  part 
he  played  so  acceptably.  And  when  the  Reception 
Committee  arrived  they  assumed  that  he  was  a 
friend  of  Madame  Patti's.  Upon  his  arm  it  was, 
therefore,  that  she  leaned  when  disembarking.  All 
this  was  done  with  a  view  to  carry  out  a  huge  fraud, 
the  detection  of  which  eventually  brought  him  to 
ruin.  The  man  was  capable  of  filling  any  position; 
but  the  life  of  adventure  and  ease  which  a  criminal 
career  provided  had  a  fascination  for  him. 

Facts  like  these  failed  to  convince  Dr.  Max  Nordau 
when  he  called  upon  me  years  ago.  At  his  last  visit 
I  put  his  "  type  "  theory  to  a  test.  I  had  two  photo- 
graphs so  covered  that  nothing  showed  but  the  face, 
and  telling  him  that  the  one  was  an  eminent  public 
man  and  the  other  a  notorious  criminal,  I  chal- 
lenged him  to  say  which  was  the  "type."  He 
shirked  my  challenge.  For  as  a  matter  of  fact 
the  criminal's  face  looked  more  benevolent  than  the 
other,  and  it  was  certainly  as  "strong."  The  one 
was  Raymond  alias  Wirth — the  most  eminent  of  the 
criminal  fraternity  of  my  time — and  the  other  was 
Archbishop  Temple.  Need  I  add  that  my  story 
is  intended  to  discredit — not  His  Grace  of  Canter- 
bury, but — the  Lombroso  "type"  theory. 
267 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

Raymond,  like  Benson,  had  a  respectable  parent- 
age. In  early  manhood  he  was  sentenced  to  a  long 
term  of  imprisonment  for  a  big  crime  committed  in 
New  York.  But  he  escaped  and  came  to  England. 
His  schemes  were  Napoleonic.  His  most  famous 
coup  was  a  great  diamond  robbery.  His  cupidity 
was  excited  by  the  accounts  of  the  Kimberley 
mines.  He  sailed  for  South  Africa,  visited  the  mines, 
accompanied  a  convoy  of  diamonds  to  the  coast,  and 
investigated  the  whole  problem  on  the  spot.  Dick 
Turpin  would  have  recruited  a  body  of  bushrangers 
and  seized  one  of  the  convoys.  But  the  methods 
of  the  sportsmanlike  criminal  of  our  day  are  very 
different.  The  arrival  of  the  diamonds  at  the 
coast  was  timed  to  catch  the  mail  steamer  for 
England;  and  if  a  convoy  were  accidentally  delayed 
en  route,  the  treasure  had  to  lie  in  the  post  office  till 
the  next  mail  left.  Raymond's  plan  of  campaign 
was  soon  settled.  He  was  a  man  who  could  make 
his  way  in  any  company,  and  he  had  no  difficulty 
in  obtaining  wax  impressions  of  the  postmaster's 
keys.  The  postmaster,  indeed,  was  one  of  a  group 
of  admiring  friends  whom  he  entertained  at  dinner 
the  evening  before  he  sailed  for  England. 

Some  months  later  he  returned  to  South  Africa 
under  a  clever  disguise  and  an  assumed  name,  and 
made  his  way  up  country  to  a  place  at  which  the 
diamond  convoys  had  to  cross  a  river  ferry  on  their 
way  to  the  coast.  Unshipping  the  chain  of  the 
ferry,  he  let  the  boat  drift  down  stream,  and  the 
268 


Some  Scotland  Yard  Cases 

next  convoy  missed  the  mail  steamer.  £90,000 
worth  of  diamonds  had  to  be  deposited  in  the  strong 
room  of  the  post  office;  and  those  diamonds  ulti- 
mately reached  England  in  Raymond's  possession. 
He  afterward  boasted  that  he  sold  them  to  their 
lawful  owners  in  Hatton  Garden. 

If  I  had  ever  possessed  £90,000  worth  of  any- 
thing, the  government  would  have  had  to  find  some- 
one else  to  look  after  Fenians  and  burglars.  But 
Raymond  loved  his  work  for  its  own  sake;  and 
though  he  lived  in  luxury  and  style,  he  kept  to  it  to 
the  last,  organizing  and  financing  many  an  important 
crime. 

A  friend  of  mine  who  has  a  large  medical  practice 
in  one  of  the  London  suburbs  told  me  once  of  an 
extraordinary  patient  of  his.  The  mail  was  a  Dives 
and  lived  sumptuously,  but  he  was  extremely 
hypochondriacal.  Every  now  and  then  an  urgent 
summons  would  bring  the  doctor  to  the  house,  to 
find  the  patient  in  bed,  though  with  nothing  what- 
ever the  matter  with  him.  But  the  man  always 
insisted  on  having  a  prescription,  which  was  promptly 
sent  to  the  chemist.  My  friend's  last  summons  had 
been  exceptionally  urgent;  and  on  his  entering  the 
room  with  unusual  abruptness,  the  man  sprang  up  in 
bed  and  covered  him  with  a  revolver!  I  might  have 
relieved  his  curiosity  by  explaining  that  this  eccen- 
tric patient  was  a  prince  among  criminals.  Ray- 
mond knew  that  his  movements  were  matter  of 
interest  to  the  police;  and  if  he  had  reason  to  fear 
•  269 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

that  he  had  been  seen  in  dangerous  company,  he 
bolted  home  and  "shammed  sick."  And  the 
doctor's  evidence,  confirmed  by  the  chemist's  books, 
would  prove  that  he  was  ill  in  bed  till  after  the  hour 
at  which  the  police  supposed  they  had  seen  him 
miles  away. 

Raymond  it  was  who  stole  the  famous  Gains- 
borough picture  for  which  Mr.  Agnew  had  recently 
paid  the  record  price  of  £10,000.  I  may  here  say 
that  the  owner  acted  very  well  in  this  matter. 
Though  the  picture  was  offered  him  more  than 
once  on  tempting  terms  he  refused  to  treat  for  it, 
save  with  the  sanction  of  the  police.  And  it  was 
not  until  I  intimated  to  him  that  he  might  deal 
with  the  thieves  that  he  took  steps  for  its  recovery. 

The  story  of  another  crime  will  explain  my  action 
in  this  case.  The  Channel  gang  of  thieves  men- 
tioned on  a  previous  page  sometimes  went  for 
larger  game  than  purses  and  pocket-books.  They 
occasionally  robbed  the  treasure  chest  of  the  mail 
steamer  when  a  parcel  of  valuable  securities  was 
passing  from  London  to  Paris.  Tidings  reached 
me  that  they  were  planning  a  coup  of  this  kind 
upon  a  certain  night,  and  I  ascertained  by  inquiry 
that  a  city  insurance  company  meant  to  send  a 
large  consignment  of  bonds  to  Paris  on  the  night 
in  question.  How  the  thieves  got  the  information 
is  a  mystery;  their  organization  must  have  been 
admirable.  But  Scotland  Yard  was  a  match  for 
them.  I  sent  officers  to  Dover  and  Calais  to  deal 
270 


Some  Scotland  Yard  Cases 

with  the  case,  and  the  men  were  arrested  on  landing 
at  Calais.  But  they  were  taken  empty-handed. 
A  capricious  order  of  the  railway  company's  marine 
superintendent  at  Dover  had  changed  the  steamer 
that  night  an  hour  before  the  time  of  sailing;  and 
while  upon  the  thieves  was  found  a  key  for  the 
treasure  chest  of  the  advertised  boat,  they  had  none 
for  the  boat  in  which  they  had  actually  crossed 
But,  mirabile  dictu,  during  the  passage  they  had 
managed  to  get  a  wax  impression  of  it!  We  also 
got  hold  of  a  cloak-room  ticket  for  a  portmanteau 
which  was  found  to  contain  some  £2000  worth  of 
coupons  stolen  by  the  gang  on  a  former  trip.  The 
men  included  in  the  "bag"  were  "Shrimps,"  "Red 
Bob,"  and  an  old  shiner  named  Powell.  But  the 
criminal  law  is  skilfully  framed  in  the  interest  of 
criminals,  and  it  was  impossible  to  make  a  case 
against  them.  I  succeeded,  however,  by  dint  of 
urgent  appeals  to  the  French  authorities,  in  having 
them  kept  in  gaol  for  three  months. 

And  now  for  the  point  of  my  story.  Powell 
had  left  a  blank  cheque  with  his  "wife,"  to  be  used 
in  case  he  came  to  grief;  and  on  his  return  to  England 
he  found  she  had  been  false  to  him.  She  had  drawn 
out  all  his  money,  and  gone  off  with  another  man; 
and  the  poor  old  rascal  died  of  want  in  the  streets  of 
Southampton.*  He  it  was  who  was  Raymond's 

*  "Shrimps"  also  found  that  his  "wife"  had  proved  unfaithful.  He  dis- 
appeared, and  I  heard  that  he  had  filled  his  pockets  with  stones  and  thrown 
himself  into  the  sea.  Had  the  men  been  in  an  English  gaol  they  would  have 
communicated  with  their  friends;  but  in  Boulogne  prison  they  were  abso- 
lutely buried,  and  their  women  gave  them  up. 

271 


Masterpieces  of  Mystery 

accomplice  in  stealing  Mr.  Agnew's  picture,  and  with 
his  death  all  hope  of  a  prosecution  came  to  an  end. 

If  my  purpose  here  were  to  amuse,  I  might  fill 
many  a  page  with  narratives  of  this  kind.  But  my 
object  is  to  expose  the  error  and  folly  of  our  present 
system  of  dealing  with  crime.  When  a  criminal 
court  claims  to  anticipate  the  judgment  of  the 
Great  Assize  in  the  case  of  a  hooligan  convicted  of 
some  vulgar  act  of  violence,  the  silliness  and  pro- 
fanity of  the  claim  may  pass  unnoticed.  But  when 
the  "  punishment-of -crime "  system  is  applied  to 
criminals  of  the  type  here  described,  the  imbecility 
of  it  must  be  apparent  to  all.  With  such  men 
crime  is  "the  business  of  their  lives."  They  delight 
in  it.  Their  zest  for  it  never  flags,  even  in  old  age. 
What  leads  men  like  Raymond  or  Carr  to  risk  a 
sentence  of  penal  servitude  is  not  a  sense  of  want — 
that  is  a  forgotten  memory.  Nor  is  it  even  a  crav- 
ing for  filthy  lucre.  The  controlling  impulse  is  a 
love  of  sport,  for  every  great  criminal  is  a  thorough 
sportsman.  And  in  the  case  of  a  man  who  is  free 
from  the  weakness  of  having  a  conscience,  it  is  not 
easy  to  estimate  the  fascination  of  a  life  of  crime. 
Fancy  the  long-sustained  excitement  of  planning 
and  executing  crimes  like  Raymond's.  In  compari- 
son with  such  sport,  hunting  wild  game  is  work  for 
savages;  salmon-fishing  and  grouse-shooting,  for 
lunatics  and  idiots ! 

The  theft  of  the  Gold  Cup  at  Ascot  illustrates 
what  I  am  saying  here.  The  thieves  arrived  in 
272 


Some  Scotland  Yard  Cases 

motor  cars;  they  were,  we  are  told,  "of  gentlemanly 
appearance,  and  immaculately  dressed,"  and  they 
paid  their  way  into  the  grand  stand.  The  list  of 
criminals  of  that  type  is  a  short  one;  and  no  one 
need  suppose  that  such  men  would  risk  penal  servi- 
tude for  the  paltry  sum  the  cup  would  fetch.  A 
crime  involving  far  less  risk  would  bring  them  ten 
times  as  much  booty.  For  no  winner  of  the  cup 
ever  derived  more  pleasure  from  the  possession  of 
it  than  the  thieves  must  have  experienced  as  they 
drove  to  London  with  the  treasure  under  the  seat  of 
their  motor  car.  For  it  was  not  the  lust  of  filthy 
lucre,  but  the  love  of  sport  that  incited  them  to  the 
venture.  There  are  hundreds  of  our  undergraduates 
who  would  eagerly  emulate  the  feat,  were  they  not 
deterred  by  its  dangers.  And  a  rule  of  three  sum 
may  explain  my  proposal  to  put  an  end  to  such 
crimes.  Let  the  consequences  to  the  professional 
criminal  be  made  equal  to  what  imprisonment 
would  mean  to  a  "Varsity"  man,  and  the  thing 
is  done. 


END 


213 


UC  SOUTHERN  RbUIUMAL  LlBwm  I-HULI  i 

•BHiiiii 

AA    000374933    0 

Date  Due 

our  1  5  1 

)64 

WAR2C 

1980 

i^HK 

1  9  1980 

f 

PRINTED 

IN  U.  3.  A. 

